


Only Fools Rush In

by connerluthorkent



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Bickering, Canon Compliant, Developing Relationship, Domestic, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Jealousy, Language of Flowers, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Edward Nygma, Oblivious Oswald Cobblepot, POV Alternating, Past Child Abuse, Pining, Post-Episode: s05e11 They Did What?, Romantic Comedy, Sexual Tension, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, To a point, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, an exercise in how many romantic comedy cliches i can use in one fic, ignores the finale, it's like...two seconds lol, like...glacial, not the dog just to be clear, very brief mention of animal abuse/death (it's like two lines)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:54:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 34,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22341397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/connerluthorkent/pseuds/connerluthorkent
Summary: After their star-crossed failure to escape on the sub, Ed and Oswald stumble their way through what life post-No Man’s Land is going to look like for them.
Relationships: Oswald Cobblepot/Edward Nygma
Comments: 262
Kudos: 345





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'ed, so my fic, my mistakes, etc, etc.
> 
> Title from the song "I Can't Help Falling In Love with You." Even I am amazed at my own level of schmoop with that one.

"It's why I'm alone," Oswald had said, breathless and self-deprecating, his voice breaking in the middle.

Ed felt his heart sink down into his stomach.

 _You’re not alone_. The thought whispered, unbidden, in the edges of his mind. _You’re not alone. I’m here._

As Oswald blinked up at him, wide-eyed and covered in blood, Ed felt his heart flutter inside his ribcage, the bottom of his stomach dropping out. 

Oh.

Oh _no_.

It’d crept under his skin, during the intervening months spent working alongside Oswald. That steady, certain pang of longing, so familiar. From Kristen. From Lee. From the _first_ time with Oswald, though now with a name attached to it, an acute understanding of the buzzing in his veins that had escaped him his first go-around. 

Oswald had snuck up on him, gotten his hooks into Ed before he had even realized. A reversal for them. It had been Ed who did the sneaking before, meticulously worming his way into Oswald’s life and then his heart without even realizing. The turnabout leaves Ed wrong-footed. He’s used to being the one sneaking up on people, not the other way around.

The memory of the night they prepped to escape Gotham’s shores on the sub crystallizes in his mind, vivid and sharp. 

Purposefully knotting his tie, the fabric a deep plum under his fingers, sleek and smooth like the skin of the fleshy fruit bursting against your tongue. Tapping the ace of diamonds into his pocket, the swirling green pattern on the front reminiscent of a question mark, a stand-in for a pocket square given their dwindled resources. Quite literally an ace up his sleeve. 

All while Vera Lynn crooned in the background, the sound of “We’ll Meet Again” wafting dreamily through the library. 

“ _Don't know where, don't know when_ ,” had serenaded Ed as he adjusted his bowler hat, “ _but I know we'll meet again some sunny day_.”

A wartime song, cherished by soldiers and the lovers waiting for them. The melodic hope for a safe return home from the war and an amorous, joyful reunion. 

Ed had smiled at his reflection, for once blissfully silent in the mirror. 

He and Oswald would leave the war far behind them.

He'd thought that, at last, maybe they'd been on the same page, slowly rebuilding their way back, together this time.

But then Oswald had left him on the docks.

Oswald _never_ left Ed. The sky is blue, the Riddler wears green, Gotham is a smog-infested cesspool of a city, and Oswald Cobblepot _never_ leaves Edward Nygma behind. These were the facts, plain and simple. He's frozen him solid, revived him from the dead, given up his revenge to save him on the end of the very same dock. Ed was fairly certain Oswald would drag his half-rotted corpse around this city if that's what it took. Because he'd _never_ leave Ed behind.

Until he did. Left Ed standing on the end of that dock, dog leash clutched limply in his hand, his words still ringing in Ed’s ears.

“Perhaps. But perhaps you could learn something,” those icy eyes set ablaze at the way Ed had pulled out his past feelings like a blow, a finger jabbed into Ed’s chest, accusation and knife, “if you listened to _this_ ,” a dismissive gesture to Ed’s head, the dark swirl of his thoughts, chaotic and never quiet, “instead of _this_.” 

And then Oswald had marched right off the end of the pier without looking back.

So Ed had done the only sensible thing he _could_ do, given the situation.

He'd run after him.

  


And then, after all of that, after all that they'd been through, after Ed chasing him back into this godforsaken city and fighting side-by-side on the barricade and Oswald losing a fucking _eye_ for him, even after all that Oswald was still standing there with a knife barely concealed behind his back.

 _Betrayal,_ his own words echo in his head, _that's how every friendship—that's how every relationship—ends._

At least, that's how every relationship Ed has ever had ended.

He’d been waiting, in the early days of their renewed partnership, for the other shoe to drop, for Oswald’s revenge. Seemed unfathomable, that Oswald’s only answer to his betrayal in the bank vault was to _pull Ed back from the brink of death_. It set Ed off balance, when that revenge failed to manifest. _Oswald_ set him off balance, with that same irritating penchant he often had for derailing Ed’s plans, for failing to follow prescribed patterns, for constantly keeping Ed on his toes. The easy companionship that had settled between them had lulled Ed into a false sense of security, coaxed him to let his guard down, if only a little. But perhaps that had been the plan all along, as it seems Oswald’s comeuppance has come at long last. 

And to think he'd considered—well. It hardly matters now.

Oswald had abandoned him on that pier, abandoned their plans to sail far away from the hell that was Gotham and never look back. And now here he is, with a knife behind his back, ready to abandon Ed one last time. 

_Just like Lee_ , a voice in his head whispers. 

He tries not to examine the insinuations of that particular parallel too closely. 

Oswald had manipulated him for his own end, like Lee had. Exploited Ed’s brilliant mind in order to build himself an escape hatch. Saving himself, like always.

Even if he had inevitably abandoned that salvation.

“Please, we’re brothers,” Oswald replies, his falsely chipper voice laced with barely concealed sarcasm, “a hug.”

So that’s how he was playing it. 

“A hug it is,” Ed says evenly, flicking open the blade of his own concealed knife. 

They shuffle awkwardly into the half-circle of each other’s arms, the tension in the air around them taut as a rope as they raise their blades in unison.

Ed will let Oswald strike first, bringing the parallels to Lee full circle. Oswald will die learning the lesson Ed had tried to teach him so long ago—that he is incapable of love. A lesson Ed had foolishly, momentarily hoped had been in vain. 

It felt fitting, in some way, to die in one another’s arms. No Oswald out there to save him this time.

Ed holds his breath, waiting, like he had so many times before, for the inevitable. 

Except...the fatal blow never comes. Instead, Ed hears Oswald release a shaky breath, shifting his hold on Edward to embrace him more tightly. 

_Or maybe not so much like Lee after all._

Every muscle in Ed’s body instinctively relaxes, his own grip around Oswald tightening as he in turn pulls him closer, and he can’t suppress the small smile that, against all reason, creeps onto his face. 

They release each other, sheathing their blades without a word. 

Oswald looks up at him, and Ed’s heart clenches at the quiet certainty in his face. 

“Life begins anew,” he says resolutely.

Warmth blooms steadily in Ed’s chest as he gazes at him, the corner of his mouth curling up in a hesitant smile.

“Shall we get to work?” he asks, voice tellingly rough, the echo of his own past words reverberating in his chest. 

Oswald’s deferential nod feels like a door that had very nearly closed indefinitely cracking open, if only just a hair. 

They stand there, bathed in the soft firelight, gazing at each other as the quiet settles comfortably around them. The moment lingers, over long, and Oswald clears his throat, breaking the silence as he casts his eyes downward.

"Well,” Oswald starts briskly, all business, “in a few days, there should be ferries shuttling between the island and the mainland. We can head out to my father's estate then, start to recoup from there."

Bristling indignance bubbles under Ed’s skin at the words.

" _Now_ you want to leave the island?" he asks thinly.

"Now that we have no money, no clothes, and no resources?” Oswald asks slowly, as though Ed is being particularly dense. “Yes, I felt it might be wise."

Ed clenches his teeth, staring darkly into the middle distance. 

"If you don't want to come,” Oswald amends, gratingly careful as he glances at Ed’s face, “you're by no means beholden to."

Ed’s lips part, gaping at the words. Rage floods through his veins, molten and burning.

“Why?” he demands, jabbing an accusatory finger at Oswald. “So you can go ahead and cut me out already?”

Now it’s Oswald’s turn to gape, exposed eye wide as he stares up at Ed in disbelief. He leans into Ed’s space, shoulders squared.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he snaps, exasperated, and the rage flares in Ed’s chest even brighter. “Did I say I was cutting you out? I just don’t want you to stay here out of some misguided sense of obligation.”

“I don’t feel obligated,” Ed spits out as he drops his arm to his side, balling his hand into a tight fist.

“Well,” Oswald says haltingly, “good.”

The silence that falls between them is stony, not at all the warm glow of their earlier pact.

"Ed," Oswald starts again, a weariness in his voice, "I’m too tired to fight. So maybe we can table this discussion until tomorrow, after we've gotten some sleep?"

Ed glances over at him. Oswald’s shoulders have slumped, his jaw tight as he undoubtedly grinds his teeth against the pain in his eye. His bandage shines red in the dim firelight. 

Ed rubs at his eyes, a tic betraying his frustration and exhaustion.

“Fine,” Ed relents, then gestures towards Oswald’s face. “But I insist that we visit the clinic first thing in the morning about your eye.”

Oswald assents with a sharp nod of his head.

“In the meantime,” Ed says, approaching him with an outstretched hand, “let me take a look.”

Oswald takes a slightly unsteady step backwards.

“You don’t have to do that.” 

“Oswald,” Ed chides, “don’t be difficult.”

But he halts his pace, instead gesturing for Oswald to resume his place in the chair by the fire. Oswald drops gracelessly back down into it, as though all the fight has suddenly gone out of him. Ed pivots sharply on his heel, going to retrieve the makeshift first aid kit from the bathroom. 

He returns to find Oswald with his face towards the fire, gaze unfocused as he stares into its flames. Ed crosses the room cautiously, coming to stand a few paces from him. When he fails to look at him, Ed reaches out and touches his knee gently, causing Oswald to startle.

“It’s just me,” Ed says, placating, as Oswald’s face twists with poorly concealed embarrassment. 

He squats down until they’re on eye-level. Oswald sits perfectly still as Ed leans forward to carefully unwind the bandage, tracking Ed’s movement with his good eye, mouth drawn into a thin line.

As the white gauze falls away, Ed lets out an involuntary hiss at the sight beneath it.

Oswald’s eye is still in tact, shining out at Ed, though it looks slightly discolored. The bleeding has mostly stopped, but the gore around it is still a deep, dark crimson that makes Ed swallow hard.

 _Following your heart has never worked out for you!_ He'd told Oswald on the pier that morning.

And it hadn't. Oswald had followed his right onto a grenade for Edward.

His hand shakes as he reaches up to swab the disinfectant against Oswald’s open flesh, grimacing in time with Oswald’s own flinch. 

"Edward," Oswald admonishes, gently pushing his hand away, "I can clean it. No need to keep at it when the very sight repulses you."

The edge of bitterness to his tone is unmistakable.

"It's not revulsion," Ed protests sharply. 

His Adam’s apple bobs as Oswald stares back at him, a challenge glinting in his pale green eye.

“It’s…” Ed trails off, casting around for the right words.

Oswald watches as he futilely searches for what to say. Ed sees it, the imperceptible way Oswald’s body starts to shift, sinking down into the chair, the fierce light seeping from his eyes to something far more hesitant and, worse, humiliated.

“Ed,” Oswald starts, quiet and resigned, just as Ed blurts, “It’s my fault.”

Oswald reels back slightly, brow furrowing as he looks at Ed.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he says, waving a dismissive hand. “It’s not your fault.”

"If I hadn't marched back into Gotham, you never would have—" Ed starts, but Oswald holds up a silencing hand.

"I'm glad you did," he insists quietly, fingers clenching in the fabric of his pant leg as he refuses to meet Ed’s eyes. 

The admission hangs suspended in the air between them. Ed’s hand twitches with the compulsion to reach out and take Oswald’s own, but he tamps down the urge.

“Besides,” Oswald continues, voice painfully casual, “who’s to say I wouldn’t have been injured anyway? And then those bastards at the GCPD would have left me there to die. I might have bled out, finally spilled the last of my life onto that dirty Gotham concrete.”

It takes all of Ed’s willpower to keep from shuddering at the vision Oswald’s words paint, of his half-crumpled body, cold and alone, abandoned as blood gushes from his face, the life slowly draining from his eyes.

“You can’t die,” his lips quirk up, shooting him a slightly off-kilter smile, “you’re Oswald Cobblepot.”

Oswald’s mouth curves uncertainly in return. 

“While your vote of confidence is touching, Ed, I fear rumors of my immortality have been greatly exaggerated.”

“You could have fooled me,” Ed mutters under his breath. 

Oswald inhales sharply, and Ed’s eyes cut to him, a full grin blooming across his face. A sudden, manic giggle bursts from his lips, making Oswald goggle at him. Then, he lets out a startled snort of his own, the outburst proving infectious. 

They sit there, laughing together, the firelight casting long shadows over their profiles, playing off of their features. 

“I need to finish this up,” Ed says finally, still chuckling slightly as he reaches out to brush the antiseptic over Oswald’s cheek. 

This time, instead of protesting, Oswald leans into the touch.

****

**  
**

****

Once Oswald’s injury has been cleaned, with a crisp new bandage put firmly back in place, Ed makes for the mattress shoved into one corner of the room. Oswald watches as he retrieves a pillow from one of the chairs in the sitting area, placing it side-by-side with the one already at the top of the bed.

“What—what are you doing?” he asks hesitantly.

Ed blinks at him, then gestures helplessly at the carefully arranged pillows.

“Preparing the bed,” he says slowly, as though Oswald is being particularly obtuse, “obviously.” 

“Oh,” Oswald says, biting his lip. “Well, then...where will I sleep?”

Ed pauses, tilting his head to study him, as though Oswald has said something particularly incomprehensible. 

“...in the bed.”

“ _With_ you?!” Oswald exclaims, mortified when his voice cracks in the middle, every bit as shrill as a prepubescent school boy.

Ed makes a show of looking all around the room, then flaps his hands at his sides as though to demonstrate the ludicrous nature of Oswald’s question.

“Where else?”

Panic seizes Oswald’s chest as Ed simply stares at him, blank face expectant.

"I can sleep in the chair!" he announces, too loud.

"Don't be ridiculous,” Ed scoffs. “You're injured. You'll sleep in the bed."

Oswald casts around for another solution, gaze landing on the cot folded up in the opposite corner.

"I could sleep on the cot!” he crows, gesturing at it. “I'm small, they'll be plenty of room for me to stretch out."

The look Ed gives him is positively deadpan.

"As I just pointed out, you're injured. You're taking the mattress. If you're that uncomfortable,” Ed concedes with a thoughtful nod, “ _I'll_ sleep on the cot."

"No! No, I—I don’t wish to put you out that way."

The frustrated line between Ed’s brow suggests he’s doing a decent job of putting him out _right now_.

"Oswald," Ed finally says, taking up that scolding tone he sometimes gets when he feels Oswald is being particularly difficult, "I don't know why you're making such a fuss. We'll just share the bed. We've shared before, remember?"

And of course Oswald does. How could he forget? 

But that had been another time, several lifetimes ago, curled together in Ed's bed at 805 Grundy. Oswald had barely known Edward then. And even with the whisperings of...something that he felt for the man, a kinship that would only grow through their continued affiliation, sharing the bed then hardly had the connotations it does _now_. Surely Ed must be aware of that.

Oswald can tell, however, from the steely resolution on Ed’s face, this is a battle he’s already lost.

He sighs but doesn’t argue further, shucking his jacket and tie off into the chair, then wanders over and flops unceremoniously onto the edge of mattress. It’s only after he’s inched himself back towards the center, feet dangling off the edge, that he realizes he’s made the grave mistake of failing to remove his shoes. He turns his gaze heavenward, huffing in exasperation.

Without a word, Ed kneels down at the foot of the makeshift bed, tugging at Oswald’s right shoelace.

“Ed,” Oswald says, equal parts amused and annoyed, “I have an eye injury. I’m not an invalid.”

“I never said you were,” Ed replies, paying him no mind as he continues carefully untying Oswald’s laces, gently pulling off his shoes and lining them up neatly at the edge of the mattress.

There’s a tenderness to it, the same tenderness that had been in the gentle swipe of Ed’s hand against his face as he cleaned up his injury. A gentle care no one has shown Oswald since his mother, since Ed himself all those years ago in his apartment and then as Oswald’s chief of staff, since Sofia Falcone with her warm hands and blood red smiles full of lies. 

Oswald swallows hard at the sudden emotion welling up in his throat. 

He isn't sure if he's allowed it, anymore. Tenderness without a knife's blade pressed against his jugular.

Once he’s finished, Ed retreats back toward the fireplace, carefully removing his own tie and jacket and placing them side-by-side with Oswald’s. 

Oswald carefully shuffles to one side of the bed and inches as close to the edge as he can, deliberately creating as much space between Ed and himself as possible. He undoes the top button of his shirt and rolls up the cuffs of his sleeves, then leans back into the pillow, trying to relax. 

Ed does the same as he comes to stand at the end of the mattress, sliding off his shoes alongside Oswald’s. Oswald’s breathe catches as Ed slips into bed beside him, freezing as Ed reaches down and pulls the blanket up over both of them, anxious even to shift with the sudden warmth of Ed so near.

“Try not to sleep on your right side,” Ed warns, patronizing in a way that ruffles Oswald.

He scoffs.

“I have a strange feeling the agonizing pain will deter me.”

Ed’s lips tighten into a frown. He opens his mouth to speak, some snappy retort undoubtedly on the tip of his tongue.

“Well then,” Oswald cuts him off, more brusque than he needs to be, Ed’s proximity putting him on edge, “pleasant dreams.”

Then he screws his eyes firmly shut, ignoring Ed’s murmured reply as he begs sleep to take him.

It can’t have been more than five minutes when Ed taps Oswald's ankle with his own sock-clad toe, the sudden sensation causing Oswald to gasp.

"Are you asleep?"

"Well, I'm not _now_ ," Oswald groans, laying his annoyance on thick.

Ed hums, contemplative, but says nothing.

"Well?" Oswald finally snaps, cutting his eye over to look at Ed. "Is there something you wanted to say?"

Ed gnaws at his lip, a flash of uncertainty marring his features, splintering the Riddler’s usual self-satisfied confidence. 

When he finally speaks, voice even and deliberate, it’s nothing Oswald could have anticipated.

"I can remember," he says, eyes cloudy with recollection, "the first time I ever saw you."

"When you stalked me around the GCPD?" Oswald instinctively quips, but there's no bite to it.

"No. Before that. The day you waltzed into the GCPD to announce the first of your many miraculous resurrections." There’s a breathless sort of fondness in Ed’s voice, windswept in a way Oswald feels he must be imagining. "Every head in the room turned to look at you. It was...awe-inspiring."

"I didn't see you," Oswald confesses, apologetic.

The smile Ed gives him is bitter.

"Nobody ever did. Not until I made them."

Oswald’s fingers twitch, itching to reach out and touch Ed, grasp his wrist or pat his shoulder. To offer comfort, even in some small way. But he refrains. 

“The truth is,” Ed’s smile turns self-conscious, “I _envied_ you. I couldn’t even get the people I _knew_ to see me. But you. You had such a _presence_ , the power to commandeer the attention of everyone in a room just by stepping into it.” 

There’s a trace of admiration on his face Oswald hasn’t seen in so long, it reverberates inside his rib cage with a nostalgic pang. 

"You know what Penn said? The first time he died in my arms?" Oswald asks, expression wry. "He said everyone hated me."

"I don't hate you." 

Ed’s eyes widen as soon as the words leave his lips, looking caught out. 

Oswald’s mouth curls, not quite a smile, the melancholy ache in his chest fraying it at the edges. 

“But you did,” he reminds him, as though he needs it. “Everyone close to me comes to, eventually. That power, that you mentioned? It wasn’t respect, that day or any other.” The confession claws at Oswald’s windpipe as he spits his next words. “No one has ever looked at me with anything other than fear, or disgust, or hatred. Those precious few who did grew to hate me, too, if and when they truly got to know me. And the worst part is, every time…I earned it.” 

Oswald closes his eye against the onslaught of emotion burning behind it. When he manages to tamp down the unshed tears and blink it open again, he finds Ed staring silently up at the ceiling, lips pursed. 

But he doesn’t disagree. A more damning blow, in its way, than if he had ardently concurred. 

“It’s better, this way,” he says after a beat, voice so steady it borders on flat.

“What is?” Oswald asks, eyebrows drawing together in confusion.

“This. Us,” he gestures vaguely between the two of them. “I have a habit of putting people up on pedestals. I did it with Kristen, with Lee, with...Isabella.”

Oswald’s heart seizes in his chest at the name, like the sharp tip of a dagger pressed against his skin. The quiet that settles in the darkness between them feels taut as a rope.

Then Ed shakes his head, as though to clear it, carrying on as though nothing had happened.

“Hell,” he snorts, so unexpected Oswald twitches at the sound of it, “I even did it with Jim Gordon, when he first came to work at the GCPD.” 

He turns his gaze to Oswald, eyes piercing and black in the low light.

“And _you_ romanticize the people you care about, make them out to be better than they are. Your mother. Gordon. _Me_.”

Oswald opens his mouth to protest, but Ed barrells on, clearly determined to finish.

“We both did it, before, with each other. I idolized you, and you painted me as your knight in shining armor.” 

There’s a flourish to the words, theatrical bordering on mocking, and Oswald’s face flushes, cringing at the connotations. 

“It’s better now, that we see each other for what we are,” he continues. “All our flaws. Cruelties. Weaknesses. That we see it and know we can put up with the worst of each other.”

Oswald swallows, words drying up in his throat. 

_I know you, Ed_. Oswald had been trying to tell him for years. And Ed had finally, after all this time, echoed him in kind. _I accept you, for the person that you are_. 

Ed turns his head and shoots him a tight smile, then reaches out and gives his shoulder a quick, almost stilted squeeze. Oswald blinks owlishly at him, at a loss for what to say, the weight of his own personal revelations and Ed’s impromptu monologue sinking into him like a stone.

“Let’s just go to sleep for now, alright?” Ed asks. 

Then, before Oswald has a chance to respond, he rolls onto his side, very deliberately turning away from him.

“Good night, Ed,” Oswald says to the other man’s back, but there’s no answer.

He spends a very long time studying the cracks in the library ceiling, willing sleep to come once more. Just as he’s dropping off, he swears he hears a _good night_ murmured softly into the nighttime silence, the moment hazy with the wistfulness of a dream. 

Exhaustion finally overtakes him, and he falls into a dark, dreamless slumber. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My first stab at a longer fic, so comments, thoughts, feelings, and keyboard smashes are, as always, cherished and welcomed!


	2. Chapter 2

The early morning light of Gotham’s smog-infested skyline spills in through the library windows, waking Ed. He shifts slightly, preparing to stretch after a night spent on the lumpy mattress. Until he notices the heavy weight on his chest. 

His brow furrows, still reluctant to opens his eyes. He doesn’t remember locking himself in the night before. Hasn’t needed to do that for months now.

Then, something soft and wispy tickles his nose.

Ed’s eyes shoot open, and he all but goes cross-eyed staring down at the unruly black tufts of hair brushing gently against his face.

His entire body relaxes at the sight, the tightness in his stomach unfurling with the revelation that Oswald is snuggled up against his chest. Ed shakes out his hand, tingling with numbness, and adjusts his grip on Oswald’s slight shoulder, having apparently wrapped an arm protectively around him after they had gravitated towards one another in the night.

He takes advantage of the rare opportunity to just study Oswald in the white morning light.

Oswald’s hunched in on himself in his sleep, from the cold or the pain, Ed can't be sure. He looks small like this, curled into a defensive ball against Ed. 

The tip of his long, aristocratic nose is pressed into Ed’s shirt, flattening it slightly. His inky black hair spills over his forehead, wild and messy, hardly resembling the perfectly-styled tresses Ed has grown accustomed to. Oswald’s suits, his make-up, his perfectly coiffed hair, they’re all essential pieces of his armor, Ed knows. Ed had seen him without them often, in the early days of their friendship. But such glimpses of the man behind the mask are a rare occurrence for him these days.

Oswald doesn’t look peaceful, in his sleep, not exactly, his mouth still tight around the corners, brow still furrowed. But he does look vulnerable, and younger for it, lips parted slightly, thick, dark lashes brushing mascara against his cheek. 

Ed worries about the pressure to his eye, sleeping slightly on his side as he is, but the bandage appears to still be firmly in place. He reaches out and brushes an unruly strand of hair out of Oswald’s eyes, ready to fall back on the pretense of keeping it clear of his injury if questioned.

From the opposite corner, Edward the dog snuffles, still sleeping atop the makeshift bed of spare pillows Oswald had procured for him. Ed rolls his eyes.

They had found the slobbering canine wandering down on the docks when they went back to retrieve the submarine. And thank God Nyssa al Ghul hadn’t made off with the sub _and_ the dog, as Ed would have undoubtedly never heard the end of it. Nevermind that he had been all but certain they were about to go down in a blaze of glory.

Oswald shifts restlessly against Ed, groaning, low and deep in his chest. Then he blinks up at him with one pale green eye, still hazy with sleep.

"Good morning," Ed says, voice rough and sleep deep.

Oswald’s brow furrows, frown deepening in confusion. Then he recoils suddenly, seemingly finally comprehending the position he's awoken in.

Oswald jerks himself into a sitting position, holding out a defensive, placating hand as he scrambles backwards on the worn mattress.

"Edward!” he exclaims, tripping over his next words in his haste. “I apologize! I had no intention of—I didn't even realize that I had—you must believe me, it wasn't—"

"Oswald!" Ed snaps, authoritative, as he makes a grab for Oswald's outstretched wrist, looking to calm him. "It's fine!"

Oswald wrenches his hand away from him, folding his arms across his chest, curling in on himself once again. As though gearing up to defend himself from Ed’s inevitable blow. With his words or his hands, Ed doesn't know.

"Honestly, Oswald,” he repeats, trying to keep his voice as even as possible, “it’s fine.”

Oswald shoves himself unsteadily to his feet, stumbling a few uneven paces away from the mattress, like he can't get away from Ed and the bed and the whole situation fast enough. He retreats toward the fireplace, then stands there, stiff and quiet, nervously glancing around the room as though trying to get his bearings. 

Ed pulls himself out of the bed as well, giving his clothes a perfunctory tug to straighten them out as surreptitiously watches Oswald from the corner of his eye.

The silence is so stilted, Ed feels like he's going to _choke_ on it.

“Well,” he says, trying to dispel the awkward air between them with feigned chipperness, his hands coming together in a sharp clap that makes Oswald startle, “it’s off to the clinic for us.” 

The comment clearly puts Oswald on the defensive, which at least has the intended effect of displacing the last devastating trace of embarrassment from his face. 

“Is that really necessary, Edward?” 

Ed gestures at Oswald’s eye flatly, the answer self-evident.

“I would say so, yes.”

“You once saved me from a bullet wound. I hardly think that this,” Oswald waves impatiently at his face, “is above your paygrade.”

“While I _am_ extremely skilled,” Ed concedes, Oswald’s pursed lips undoubtedly a response to the swaggering arrogance in his voice, “eyes are delicate work. I’d really prefer if you were seen by a professional.”

“Fine,” Oswald grumbles, holding up his hands in defeat. He reaches for his jacket, tugging it on roughly, resigned to his fate. “Whatever you say.”

Ed bites back a pleased smile.

“ _Don’t_ ,” Oswald threatens when he catches sight of his face, pointing an accusatory finger at him. “Just. Don’t.”

“Fine,” Ed parrots, still grinning as he begins buttoning his own collar, “whatever _you_ say.”

  


Oswald blinks his good eye blearily, the lack of sight in his right still jarring in the first moments of consciousness. As his vision begins to clear, he catches that familiar flash of blinding green, the outline of a pair of thin shoulders hovering near the foot of the bed.

Ed’s face finally comes into view as his eye manages to focus at last, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a half-smile when he realizes Oswald is awake. 

“Welcome back to the land of the living.”

Oswald thinks he hears a slight tremor to his words, but he chalks it up to the haze of his drug-addled brain playing tricks on him.

Although, perhaps there _is_ something to it. Ed had been... _off_ , ever so slightly, from the moment they’d bustled into the clinic. There was a steely determination to his actions that the situation hardly warranted, his tone clipped as he demanded that “Mr. Cobblepot” be seen by a proper physician “ _immediately_ ,” the warning edge in his voice unmistakable. The nurse he’d ambushed had taken his implicit threat to heart and gotten them into a room in a matter of minutes, in spite of the overwhelming number of Gothamites sprawled across every available inch of the clinic’s waiting area.

"How are you feeling?" Ed says now, with a softness Oswald finds jarring, if for no other reason than how sharply it contrasts to the brusque efficiency he’s been displaying all morning. 

Oswald pauses, considering.

“...I’ve been worse.” 

“Not a particularly reassuring barometer,” Ed observes wryly.

Oswald sighs in agreement.

"In all honesty? A bit like a line-up of my innumerable enemies took turns having a crack at my skull."

Ed grimaces in sympathy, reaching out and squeezing Oswald’s ankle through the blankets. It takes all of his will power not to jerk away from Ed’s touch.

Ed’s hand lingers, the warmth from his palm radiating through the thin sheet as he delicately clasps Oswald’s leg. Oswald has to look away, the casual familiarity of the gesture momentarily overwhelming him with an emotion he can’t put a name to.

As he turns his head, he catches an even more blinding burst of yellow erupting from his bedside table out of the corner of his eye, and it takes his brain a moment to catch up and process just exactly what it is he’s seeing.

“What are those?” Oswald asks, squinting at the bright yellow blooms in confusion.

“...flowers,” Ed says slowly, as though speaking to someone extremely dimwitted. The concerned frown on his face makes Oswald bristle.

“Yes, Ed, I can see that,” he huffs, harsher than he needs to be, “what I meant to say is...where did they come from?”

Ed stands up then, coming over to fuss with the arrangement.

“I brought them,” he eventually answers, quiet enough Oswald nearly misses it.

" _You_ bought me flowers?" Oswald asks, skeptical but not displeased as Ed picks up the vase and sets it in his lap.

“That _is_ the customary gesture when someone is in the hospital, Oswald,” Ed says, as if Oswald is being ridiculous to question the logic of his own sense of decorum.

“Daffodils?” Oswald adds, even more dubious as he leans forward and tentatively smells them.

Gazing down at their golden blooms, he can’t think of a flower people would associate _less_ with him. 

Ed holds up a finger. 

“Their botanic name is Narcissus,” he explains with a quick jab of his index finger.

That startles a laugh out of Oswald, and Ed’s dark eyes twinkle in return, entirely too pleased with himself.

Oswald shakes his head, uncertain how insulted he should be. 

“Ah,” he says, voice wry, “I see. Flowers as veiled insult. That follows, then.”

“Their name isn’t their _only_ significance,” Ed replies, looking affronted. “I know that lilies were your mother’s favorite, but these have symbolic meaning.” 

Ed reaches out and strokes one of the petals with the back of his knuckle, black gloves sharply contrasting against the bright yellow. Oswald watches him with a raised eyebrow, expectant. 

The silence lingers on as Ed continues to admire the sunny blooms in his lap, and Oswald sighs.

“You’re not going to tell me, are you?”

“Nope,” Ed says brightly, popping the ‘p’ in his mouth.

Typical. Leave it to Ed to turn a bouquet of flowers into a riddle to be unraveled. 

“Where on earth did you even _find_ daffodils in the middle of a war zone?” Oswald asks, diverting the conversation to a new line of inquiry as he sets the vase back on the side table.

“I have my ways,” Ed answers, preening as he retakes his seat and scoots the chair forward until he’s at Oswald’s elbow. Oswald notices the worn out old paperback open facedown in his lap, but the angle prevents him from reading the title.

Oswald balls his hands into fists, pressing them down at his sides into the mattress as he makes to sit up.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Ed asks, lips twitching, looking simultaneously amused and exasperated.

“Getting out of this bed!” Oswald snaps, flailing his hands impatiently at his sides, ignoring the woozy feeling in his head as he tries to fling his legs over the side.

“Ah, ah, ah,” Ed clucks his tongue, stopping Oswald with a gentle hand to his chest. “You aren’t going anywhere until the doctor comes by to follow-up.”

Oswald huffs as he collapses gracelessly back into the pillows, glaring up at Ed. 

“I’m a criminal kingpin, for god’s sake. I hardly think a—a—” he splutters, indignation momentarily overtaking him, “a flesh wound is worth this much fuss!”

“The orderly who wheeled you in after your surgery informed me in all likelihood they would need to keep you overnight for observation,” Ed adds, ignoring his outburst entirely.

“This is ridiculous,” Oswald mutters, crossing his arms across his chest, shoulders hunching. 

“Pout all you like,” Ed says, making Oswald sneer. He is absolutely _not_ pouting, no matter what Ed has to say about the matter. “But, they are unfortunately _woefully_ understaffed after Dorrance’s attack on the hospital. Combined with the influx of patients from the battle, you might as well settle in. I’m afraid we’ll be waiting a while.”

With that, Ed sits back in his own chair, long fingers snatching up the book from his lap and disappearing behind it.

Oswald fidgets in the sudden quiet, worrying at the fraying edge of the hospital blanket with his thumb, the worn threads rough against his skin. 

“...read to me?” he finally asks, trying to sound more demanding than needy. 

Ed peaks out at him from behind the book, the upturn of his mouth suggesting that, in all likelihood, Oswald was less than successful.

“Of course.”

Ed clears his throat, bending back the spine of the beaten up paperback as he props one elbow on the edge of Oswald’s bed. 

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” he reads, the drama in his voice soothing in its familiarity, making Oswald feel warm as he sinks into the thin hospital mattress, “who was usually very late in the mornings, save upon those not infrequent occasions when he was up all night, was seated at the breakfast table…”

  


"I look," Oswald drawls, dry and dismissive as he appraises the black patch over his eye in the library mirror, "like a fucking pirate."

Ed hides an amused smirk in his shirt sleeve, covering up his soft laugh with a cough.

"Very fearsome," he says, forcing his voice to be even, lips twitching at the corners in spite of his best efforts.

Oswald rolls his one good eye.

"Shut up," he says, sounding more resigned than malicious as he gives Ed's shoulder a reproachful shove.

It’s been several days since Oswald was released from the hospital. The doctor had recommended at least three days of extended rest to recuperate, which they had taken, in spite of Oswald’s complaining, loudly and often, every time Ed was within ear shot. 

As per Ed’s suspicions from his own inspection, the doctor had confirmed that Oswald’s eye was still intact, though discolored, and functionality had obviously been compromised due to the trauma. Oswald’s pupils were unresponsive to light, dilation nil and void. The doctor did assure them that he thought Oswald’s vision would recover, albeit slowly, but only time would tell the level of impairment. 

This morning was the fourth since Oswald’s surgery, meaning, as per his impatience, they currently were prepping to ferry out to the Van Dahl mansion. During Oswald’s enforced down time, they’d only had around three shouting matches about the matter before Ed was forced to concede the point. 

It wasn't even that he didn't _want_ to go to the mansion. It was simply a matter of principle, that Oswald had abandoned all their carefully laid plans to escape from Gotham, but _now_ he was willing to move his base of operations outside the city at the drop of a hat. 

Not that Ed was inclined to mention _that_ particular motivation for his reluctance to relocate. Not _out loud_ , at any rate.

Oswald fusses with his tie, clearly dissatisfied, before letting out a puff of frustration and viciously unknotting it once more.

“Here,” Ed says, reaching for it instinctively, “let me.”

Oswald recoils, lips parting as he gapes up at Ed, and Ed drops his hands from Oswald’s lapels immediately, curling them into fists at his sides.

“What—what’re you doing?” Oswald asks, squinting at him suspiciously.

What _is_ he doing?

“I—” he finds himself stuttering, shaking his head slightly to try and get himself back under control, “I just thought, perhaps, with your eye—”

He gestures helplessly at the patch across Oswald’s face as Oswald continues to blink up at him, eye cloudy with incomprehension, as though he’s suddenly speaking gibberish. Ed straightens his spine, clearing his throat awkwardly.

“I apologize. That was completely inappropriate,” he throws up his hands, agitated. “I don’t know what came over me.” 

He does, though. A long buried muscle memory, that instinct to help this man in whatever way he could, bubbling back to the surface. His long-held resolve worn away chip by chip from the months spent side-by-side with Oswald, planning their escape from Gotham, until he finds himself automatically offering him his elbow or brushing lint off his jacket, all remnants of his days as chief of staff. 

“Well,” Oswald says, sounding equally stilted, “I assure you I have two perfectly functioning hands.”

He holds them up as though to demonstrate, but then stops as he gets caught up examining his reflection in the mirror, lips tightening as he eyes himself critically.

“Although, perhaps,” he says, licking his lips nervously as he tilts his head in concession, “perhaps I could use your help. My impaired depth perception makes it a bit more difficult to keep things from being off-center.” 

“Of course,” Ed says, wincing at how quickly the words spill from his mouth, as though he’s been possessed by his younger self, painfully awkward and eager-to-please.

Oswald steps up into his space, tipping up his chin to give Ed easier access. His shoulders stiffen, going rigidly still as Ed reaches forward to resume readjusting his tie. 

Ed, who had done this a thousand times in that cemented-over former life, is suddenly painfully aware of just how intimate this is, trying not to startle when his hands brush against Oswald’s chest. He knots the tie quickly, so much so it’s a wonder he doesn’t make a tangled mess of it in his haste.

“There,” Ed says, pulling the fabric taut against Oswald’s collar and then absently smoothing down the front of his shirt.

He catches Oswald wincing at the contact and withdraws his hands immediately, stepping back to give him a better look.

“See for yourself,” he says, gesturing at the mirror with an over-the-top flourish, trying to better separate the past from the present with a bit of that dramatic Riddler flair. 

Oswald inspects his reflection, considering. 

“It will certainly do,” he assents, with a sharp nod of his head.

He turns back to Ed, a sudden flash of startled vulnerability coming over his face before he quickly schools his expression once more. 

“Thank you, Ed,” he says, voice tight but soft, a hint of sincerity shining through. 

“You’re welcome,” Ed says, a struggle, the words rough and chalky on his tongue.

As though he’s forgotten how to say them and _mean_ it. 

  


The ferry is crowded, overstuffed with straggling Gothamites desperate for escape. Ed weaves his way through the crowd on Oswald’s heels, the single trunk holding everything they own collectively clutched in his left hand. Ed wrinkles his nose in disgust, sneering when a man in a derby hat and dirty trench coat stumbles into him.

He detests being stacked on this death trap with the Gotham riff raff.

Oswald comes to a stop once he reaches the bow, leaning against the railing. The air is brisk out on the water, Oswald wrapped up in his purple fur coat. A vestige spared from the fate of so much of his wardrobe, whisked far away from Gotham’s shores when Nyssa al Ghul made off with _their_ submarine. He clutches a leash in one hand, that mutt who bears Ed’s name waddling slowly behind him. 

Ed takes his place at Oswald’s right side. He watches, a smile playing across his lips, as Oswald pulls the fur collar up over his nose, trying to fend off the cold. The sight is...well, Ed imagines _adorable_ is probably remiss for one of the fiercest crime lords Gotham has ever seen, but a more accurate descriptor is escaping him at the moment.

Then, because the universe seems determined to disrupt even Ed’s briefest moments of pleasure, that goddamned dog starts fucking _yapping_. Ed grits his teeth, the sudden, irresistible urge to commit homicide itching beneath his skin. He takes a steady breath, a vain attempt to quell the compulsion. 

He curls his fingers over the railing, bracing as he stares out at the choppy gray water, Gotham growing smaller and smaller on the horizon. Bitterness creeps up in his throat, visions of the pair of them escaping this godforsaken city beneath Miller Harbor swimming before his eyes. He swallows the image down, trying not to dwell on the sense of missed opportunity. Of another life, now lost.

When Ed manages to shake himself out of his daze, he turns back to find Oswald with a cigarette clenched between his teeth, lighting up with one hand as he slides a packet into his coat pocket with the other. Ed has no clue where he got either. 

"Those things will kill you," he jokes, deadpan. 

Oswald gives him a wry look, holding the cigarette up between his fingers in mock salute.

"It has recently come to my attention that I am apparently impervious to death," Oswald reiterates, a teasing edge to his voice. "Might as well make the most of it.”

"I didn't know you smoked," Ed adds offhandedly. He thought there was little he didn't know about Oswald at this point, but Oswald's penchant for surprising him has prevailed again.

"I haven't. Not for years. But you know what they say. Old vices die hard," Oswald says, puffing on the end of it. "Particularly in times of stress."

Ed plucks the cigarette from his fingers, simpering at the way Oswald’s eyes crinkle around the corners in annoyance.

“Nasty habit,” he comments before taking a long drag, his lips wrapping around the tip where Oswald’s had just been, a pantomime of a kiss. 

He blows smoke in Oswald’s face, smirking at him like a challenge. 

Oswald takes the proffered cigarette back easily when Ed extends it to him between two fingers, puffing on the end and blowing smoke right back, challenge accepted and met. 

“I picked it up in a nasty place,” he replies, unruffled, flicking the burning ember at the city skyline fading on the horizon.

Ed purses his lips at the statement, corners drawing down into a frown. Oswald taps the cigarette against the railing, spilling ash into the water. Ed tracks the trail it makes into the harbor, watching as the cinders sink below the dark reflective surface.

“That might have been us, a few days ago,” Ed observes, still staring into the water’s inky depths, trying to keep the resentment out of his voice. 

Oswald makes an acknowledging noise in the back of his throat, cigarette still between his lips. The wind sweeps his gravity-defying hair even higher, turning his sharp nose pink. Softening him deceptively.

"You said," Oswald says eventually, too nonchalant, a coy accusation brimming just below the surface, "that it took _two_ men to pilot that submarine."

Ed reaches up and adjusts his glasses, hand unsteady.

"Yes?"

Oswald turns to look at him, exposed green eye piercing.

"To my understanding, there is only one illustrious al Ghul left standing,” he says. “Not two."

"I may have...miscalculated," Ed admits.

"Miscalculated?" Oswald raises his eyebrows. " _That_ doesn't sound much like you."

Ed clears his throat.

"Misspoken, then," he offers.

"To what end?"

"Pardon?" Ed asks, angling his body towards Oswald.

"You're meticulous, Ed. You rarely do something without an explanation of _some_ kind, however...thin,” Oswald says airily, a backhanded compliment so casual it makes Ed’s teeth grind. “So what purpose did you have, in mispeaking? In what way did it serve you? Why did you do it?"

And Ed…Ed has an answer, but not one he can say out loud. Not to Oswald. Not yet.

So, he does what he always does when he’s backed into a corner, a truth he cannot speak on the tip of his tongue. He offers a riddle instead. 

“Locked up, I can be stolen,” he recites, “If touched, I may be snared. I remain even if you lose me, stop only when you’re dead.”

_What am I?_ lingers on his lips, but when he parts them, no sound comes out. 

Oswald stops, peering up at him, but he, too, says nothing. If he’s deciphered Ed’s words, his face doesn’t show it, a skeptical line forming between his eyebrows as he squints at him. 

"Fine, then," he says after a pause, stubbing out his cigarette. “You're entitled to your secrets. As I am to mine."

Ed is aware it would be in bad form to demand to know what he means. That doesn't mean he doesn’t have to bite his tongue to keep from doing so, the compulsion so powerful it nearly overwhelms him. 

They turn away from each other then, both studying the harbor once more.

So they sail silently on towards the woodsy opposite shore together. A brief respite from Gotham’s clutches awaits them, the home they’d shared and lost. But only temporary, rather than the permanent escape Ed had longed for. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The book Ed reads to Oswald from is _The Hound of the Baskervilles_.
> 
> As always, thoughts, comments, and general squee welcomed and appreciated. <3


	3. Chapter 3

There’s no such thing as ghosts. Still, Ed would be lying if he claimed entering the foyer of the Van Dahl mansion didn't feel...haunting. And not because of the thick cobwebs and the achingly familiar baroque furnishings.

He has been back here exactly once since he left his life of Chief of Staff behind, to retrieve the very coat Oswald is wearing when Ed had broken him out of Arkham. And that had been a straightforward pragmatic retrieval, in and out without any time to really _dwell_ on it. No time to soak in the surroundings, exactly as Ed remembered but for the thick coat of dust settled over every surface, the house mausoleum still. Like a moment suspended in time. 

It’s lucky, for Ed, that there are no ghosts in the Van Dahl mansion, only the ones inside his head. Of that, he’s certain. For if there had been, they would have haunted him a long, long time ago. 

Oswald shows no such hesitation, setting the dog on the floor before cutting a clear path into the dining area. He stops as he reaches the table, Ed dropping the suitcase by the door and then coming to stand at his left shoulder. 

Oswald turns out his coat pockets, a veritable bounty spilling out onto the dining table. A pocket watch with a gold chain. An emerald spider broach. Several leather wallets. A wad of loose cash. 

Ed does the same, revealing his own spread. A silver necklace with a garnet inlay. An intricately carved antique pocketknife. A snakeskin billfold. His own fistful of cash. 

“And,” Ed adds, holding up a finger as he produces Oswald’s cigarettes from his own suit jacket, presenting them on his palm with a flourish, “ta-da!”

“Very impressive,” Oswald nods, not sounding the least bit affected as he takes the packet from Ed’s outstretched hand. 

Then he drops two small pieces into Ed’s palm, curling Ed’s fingers over them with a press of his hand.

“I believe those are yours,” Oswald says, tone still maddeningly even as he gives Ed’s hand a pat.

Ed unfolds his fingers to find his own silver cufflinks glittering up at him mockingly.

“That’s hardly impressive,” Ed argues, “cufflinks are much smaller than a packet of cigarettes. Much more difficult to notice missing.”

“Yes, but they’re also pressed up against your target’s wrist,” Oswald replies. “There’s a much higher chance of brushing up against their skin as you undo the clasp and tipping them off, and therefore more of a challenge to take off someone’s person.” 

“But you have to get much closer,” Ed says, voice low as he steps into Oswald’s space, murmuring close to his ear, “to get something out of a man’s pocket.”

He steps back quickly, grinning as he waves Oswald’s handkerchief in his face, the thin umbrella embroidery on the edge billowing like a white flag of surrender. 

“Give me that,” Oswald snaps, snatching it back. 

The faint tinge that flares on his cheeks gives him a way, confirming Ed has successfully ruffled his feathers.

"This by no means confirms you the victor," Oswald scoffs, tapping the cigarette packet, "since I snatched these off that buffoon in the derby hat."

"Oh, good," Ed says, pulling out a thick billfold and wagging it back and forth, "I grabbed his wallet as well. Miserable crag."

They share a surprised, delighted laugh at that. A gleeful sort of pleasure bubbles up between them as they survey their modest riches, the bone-deep satisfaction that comes with a scheme, however modest, executed without a hitch. 

Ed watches as Oswald looks up from the dining room table, taking in the room. His eyes glaze over, lost in thought. The mood shifts around them, and then Oswald releases a heavy sigh. 

"I suppose I should start hocking my father's possessions as soon as we have a contact for moving goods," he muses, voice carefully dispassionate. "He has quite a few items of value lying around here."

The tinge of sadness shines through despite his best efforts, transparent in the wrinkle of his nose and the lines around his mouth, as though he's tasted something bitter. 

“I’m sure we can find...other means,” Ed says, his best attempt at consolation. 

As he mirrors Oswald’s glance around the room, his own eyes are drawn to the sitting room just off the dining area. 

Elijah Van Dahl’s portrait, imposing and grand, hangs over the fireplace. His painted eyes, dull and empty, still seem to bore into him like an accusation, just as they had in the wake of Oswald’s death. 

As he glances down, deliberately avoiding his stare, he catches sight of Oswald’s commissioned painting, the one Ed had defaced. The brilliant green question mark overlaid across Oswald’s portrait shimmers, the Ed in the painting unblemished in the back. Ed has to grit his teeth to keep from grimacing. 

"Oh, yes," Oswald says, following his eyeline with a mocking smile, "admiring your handiwork? I'm thinking of having it mounted over the fireplace. What do you think?"

"It's certainly garish enough," Ed says, more flat than mocking, an attempt to keep his voice even as he swallows hard.

"You're one to talk about garish," Oswald tosses over his shoulder, turning on his heel and heading back into the foyer.

Ed follows Oswald’s lead, up the stairs and down the hall, toward the side-by-side master suite and guest room at the end. 

Oswald swerves just before he reaches the master room door, turning into the guest suite. Ed’s old room. Ed has no choice but to follow suit. 

If Ed found entering the mansion haunting, stepping over the threshold into his old bedroom is uncanny, like falling through a portal that sends him hurtling backwards in time. 

It’s just as he left it, albeit now under that same thick layer of dust. Every item in its place. Preserved. Untouched. As though the door to his room had been sealed shut following his departure, never to be opened again. 

Ed’s records are stacked neatly in one corner of the room, next to the Victrola. Furiously scribbled notes spill out over the bedside table, a physical manifestation of his disjointed and erratic thoughts just before he’d left the manor for the last time. The old patchwork quilt from 805 Grundy remains folded over the foot of the bed, Oswald having recovered it and several other items from his old apartment during Ed’s stay in Arkham. 

Oswald crosses the room and throws open the closet doors with a flourish. Ed peaks over his shoulder to find it full to the brim, the entirety of his former wardrobe still intact, abandoned when Ed had left every trace of his old life behind to be reborn as the Riddler. 

"Here we are. I apologize that they're not as," Oswald casts a look at Ed over his shoulder, sweeping a discerning eye over his bright green suit, " _brazen_ as your more recent attire. But I suppose they'll have to do until you can be fitted by a tailor with something more akin to your contemporary style."

"You—you kept them?" Ed says hesitantly, skimming his fingers over the line of beautiful suits, bestowed upon him immediately after Oswald arranged his release from Arkham. 

Ed remembers feeling an unspeakable sense of awe that evening, at this kindness so freely and lavishly given, when Ed had had to fight tooth-and-nail for every scrap of compassion he’d received in the past.

Oswald snorts, drawing him from his reverie.

"What was I going to do, burn them?"

Ed merely raises an eyebrow.

"As…cathartic as that might have been," Oswald concedes with an acknowledging tilt of his head, "me, dispose of an entire set of perfectly fine suits that I had custom-made? No."

He waves a dismissive hand.

Ed politely doesn’t point out that they’d have been little use to Oswald, having been tailored to fit Ed’s own measurements exactly.

Among the finery, he notices the sweater Oswald had gifted him during his tenure at Arkham. Like the quilt, a memento Oswald had managed to retrieve from the apartment on Grundy. Ed reaches forward, rubbing the soft fabric between his fingers, an emotion he can’t place welling up in his throat. 

“This will be...sufficient, for the time being, then?” Oswald asks, gesturing to their surroundings. 

There’s a nervous hesitancy to his words that Ed knows. It’s that slight tremor Ed had pinpointed in the wake of Oswald’s feelings revealed, desperately trying to reconstruct those months and unravel the clues, the tells, the signposts that signalled the shift he’d missed along the way.

“Yes, Oswald,” Ed says with a soft sincerity he didn’t know he was still capable of, “I believe it will do just fine. Thank you.”

Oswald gives him a cautious smile. 

“I’ll just...leave you to get settled in, then.”

With that, he scurries from the room, leaving Ed with a faint echo ringing in his ears.

That’s exactly what he’d said the first time. 

  


Oswald stares down blankly at his phone, open to a page titled “The Daffodil Flower: Its Meaning and Symbolism.” It’s the third or fourth website of this nature he’s looked at in the last twenty minutes, and he feels no closer to understanding their significance than he had when he started. If anything, he’s _more_ confused. 

Narcissuses are a symbolically complex flower, if these pastel colored websites are to be believed. Listed potential meanings thus far have included: New beginnings. Forgiveness. Awareness and inner reflection. Memory. 

Unrequited love, which had made Oswald’s heart seize momentarily in his chest, that familiar icy dread trickling into his stomach. 

At times, they also apparently take on the form of request. A request for affections returned. 

“You’re the only one.” The phrase repeats, over and over, across a handful of the pages he’s opened. 

Oswald huffs out a sigh, snapping his phone shut and tossing it onto the bed. He reaches over onto the night stand and picks up the dried bloom, smuggled out of sight from Edward in a hidden pocket of Oswald’s suit jacket, and pulls a petal vindictively from its stem. 

Leave it to Ed to present him with such a contradictory gesture, a flower so dense with paradoxical meanings as to be nearly impenetrable. A riddle indeed.

And then there were Ed's _actual_ riddles.

The words echo in Oswald’s mind. 

_Locked up, I can be stolen. If touched, I may be snared. I remain even if you lose me, stop only when you’re dead_.

Oswald has never had any particular aptitude for riddles, but even _he_ finds the sentiment of this one rather transparent. 

Between the enigmatic bouquet and the riddle, he's putting the pieces together. Combined, they’re painting a very specific picture. Pointing, seemingly, in only one direction. 

His pulse beats, rabbit-quick in his veins, at the thought. 

But that simply cannot be it. He must be missing some important piece, and coming to all the wrong conclusions in its absence. 

And if he _is_ wrong...he could destroy everything they've built back between them. Lose the parts of Ed he _has_ been allowed again after all this time.

He's not sure he'll be able to live through it again. To have Ed, even at a distance, just to lose him once and for all.

If nothing else, the last nine months have served as a painfully clear reminder that Oswald genuinely _enjoys_ time spent with Ed when they aren't fighting. (Sometimes, even when they are.)

The truth is, he _likes_ Ed. Likes the melodic sound of his voice, showtunes sung under his breath as he squints down at blueprints and plans, concentrating too deeply to even realize he’s doing it. Likes his laugh, manic and unhinged and _free_ , the way his entire body lights up with it. Even likes what an annoyingly pedantic pain-in-the-ass he can be, meticulous to the point of madness, always ready to answer Oswald’s jabs with an equally spiked one of his own. 

Somehow, in the whirlwind melodrama of the past few years, some part of Oswald had forgotten that. How very much he genuinely _likes_ this exasperating puzzle of a man, the kinship he feels with him on a bone-deep level. That connection the rarest of gems, Edward entirely singular in a sea full of pawns and adversaries and little else in between. 

And he’d felt it acutely these past months working on the sub with Ed, that growing fondness glowing brighter and brighter in his ribcage. His chest aching every time Ed put a steadying hand on his elbow on the days Oswald’s leg was giving him trouble. His heart fluttering whenever Ed flashed him one of his wide, disarming smiles when a part of the sub finally came perfectly together. Every pang and tremor of his heart serving as a tragic reminder that Oswald was once again, after all this time, utterly, hopelessly in love with Edward Nygma. That he had never stopped, if he was being honest with himself. Not really. 

That was why he hadn’t let himself look back that morning, tears in his eyes, when Edward was shouting desperately at him from the end of the pier. He knew himself well enough to know that if he looked back, there would be no hope. He would crumple, with one look in Ed’s beseeching eyes. Fold like a paper tiger. And then he’d be unable to do anything except follow Edward Nygma helplessly to the ends of the Earth and back, go anywhere he commanded, do anything he wanted for the rest of his days.

In truth...he was afraid. Ed had once held such a sway over him, it was frightening to think, after all this time, after all they had done to one another, that he still did. That he still held Oswald’s heart in the palm of his hand, to be crushed with one simple squeeze. That he still had the power to destroy him, if Oswald let him, in an instant. Oswald had frozen Ed in a block of ice as a reminder to never lose himself to love again. But, in truth, he had failed, miserably, to ever learn that lesson.

So...Oswald hadn’t looked back. And he thought, in that moment, that perhaps he still had the upper hand, still held power clasped tightly in his fist. He had managed to drag himself away from Ed’s pleading voice on the pier. That had to _mean_ something, didn’t it? 

At the height of his love for Ed, Oswald could never have done such a thing. Could never have turned a deaf ear to Edward begging him to run away with him, like a vision sprung fully-formed from Oswald’s most self-indulgent fantasies, the ones he allowed himself only in the dark, early hours of tormented sleepless nights. 

But then he’d gone and shielded Ed from that grenade without a second thought, on pure instinct alone, throwing himself into the line of fire and paying the price for it. A reminder, Ed’s own voice sharp in his mind, of all the weaknesses that came with love. 

After all this time, with all he had experienced, knowing full well that his heart would always bleed like an open wound, Oswald was inclined to agree with the Ed of yesteryear. What place could love possibly ever have, for men like them?

He flops backwards onto the bed with a groan, pressing a hand to his good eye. 

Perhaps he’s reading too much into things. Maybe there was nothing veiled in the riddle Ed had recited on the ferry, just one of Ed’s quirks, his idiosyncratic way of communicating his thoughts and feelings. After all, the man had recited _love_ riddles to Oswald and not meant them, not _for_ him, at least, not as confession of his own _feelings_. And it wasn’t as though unpacking the nuances of riddles was exactly Oswald’s strong suit. 

He had just thought, when Ed stormed into the GCPD after Oswald had left him on the pier, that maybe...Ed had meant something else, with all his declarations of loyalty to Gotham and lies about the submarine. 

But perhaps the answer was much simpler. Perhaps Ed really did just love the city. Maybe he’d realized his heart was here, as Oswald’s was. 

Or perhaps someone who held his heart remained in Gotham, even still. Oswald thinks of Ed’s evasiveness, the night Dorrance had attacked the hospital, when he’d inquired if Ed had put his life on the line to save Lee Thompkins. 

A sour bile rises in the back of his throat at the thought. At how likely it seems. 

He supposes its moot to speculate. He knows, now that they’re back together one last time, he’ll do what it takes to stay in Ed’s good graces, in whatever form their partnership takes, near or afar. Hoping for more than he’s been given, more than he thought he’d ever have again, is foolish, a waste of time and energy. Better to carry on as he has, that yearning affection quietly locked away inside the dark chambers of his heart. 

Naive hope, that ridiculous longing for tenderness and romance a man like him could neither attract nor ever hope to keep, had gotten him into this heart-wrenching mess to start with. The years had turned him too bruised and jaded to let such flights of fancy ensnare him in their trap again.

  


A few hours pass, spent unpacking his portion of the suitcase, combing through old mementos forgotten, and generally settling back into his old room before Oswald decides to check up on Ed.

He goes next door and knocks, but finds the bedroom empty. A good ten minutes pass wandering the mansion before he finally locates Ed in, of all places, Oswald’s former office, door slung wide open.

Oswald steps into the room to find him sitting cross-legged on the floor, feet bare apart from a pair of faded green socks with a hole in the toe. Ed’s jacket is off, shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, hair slightly disheveled, much like the room itself. 

Drawers are open, papers strewn across the floor, the desk, the chair, presumably any available flat surface Ed could find. He’s currently at the eye of the storm, a sea of white all around him. There are several piles neatly lined up in rows in front of him, Ed muttering to himself as he meticulously files the bundle of papers in his arms into the stacks. 

There’s something strangely sensual about it, Ed divested of his suit jacket, in nothing more than his shirt sleeves and waistcoat. An intimacy about the whole thing, seeing Ed dressed down and settled, divested of his carefully-constructed finery, those glimpses of bare skin always hidden away now comfortably on display. Oswald can’t remember the last time he saw Ed in anything less than a three piece suit, apart from the jumpsuit he had taken to wearing while building the submarine and the few hours this week Ed had shed his jacket while sleeping. 

The pale line of Ed’s arm, from elbow to fingertips, is hypnotizing as he flips impatiently through Oswald’s papers. The tip of his tongue peaks out through his lips, a signal that he’s deep in the spiral of his own thoughts. His glasses slip down to the tip of his nose, and a few loose strands of brown hair brush against his forehead, bouncing slightly in time with his frenzied movements. 

Oswald loves him, sharp and aching in its simplicity. He hates himself for it, but it's a familiar self-loathing, a bitter old friend like his limp.

“Ed,” Oswald finally says, the corners of his lips twitching, “what are you doing?”

Ed jerks at the sound, turning wild-eyed to look at Oswald. Then he lets out a huff, gesturing in frustration at the piles upon piles of paperwork stacked all over Oswald’s former study. 

“The organization of your papers is, frankly, _abysmal_. I can’t believe you let it get this out of hand since I—” Ed cuts himself off, swallowing, a wave of sudden self-consciousness coming over him.

The sense of déjà vu is palpable, both because he’d almost mentioned their life _before_ ,and because he’s found himself in this exact position many, many times before, even earlier than that. He’s given up on all sense of propriety in recent years, stopped playing at manners, at being polite. He was _right_ , and anyone foolish enough to challenge him would see the edge of the Riddler’s blade for their hubris. Still, he knows from experience that his behavior constitutes a line very much crossed, one that usually evokes irate indignation in those whose personal space has been violated.

His shoulders tense, gearing himself up for the inevitable temper tantrum, the fallout from a boundary not just ignored, but trampled into the dust. 

But when he glances up, Oswald doesn’t look angry. He just looks amused, throwing his hands into the air, entirely resigned.

“I’m not sure how relevant any of my old files are, given the circumstances,” he offers, “but you’re welcome to reorganize them however you’d like.”

With that, he turns on his heel, leaving Ed to it. 

All Ed can do is blink, flabbergasted, in his wake. 

  


Oswald is sitting at the dining room table, eating a can of soup he’d found buried in the back of the cupboard, when Ed finally emerges from his office. The can of mushroom and beef stew isn’t exactly appetizing, but it’s at least more in date than most of the rations they’d been surviving on in the latter months of No Man’s Land. 

Ed walks into the dining area softly, posture rigid as he approaches Oswald where he’s sitting at the head of the table. Once he reaches Oswald’s side, he freezes, standing stock still at his elbow but saying nothing. 

Oswald squints up at him in confusion, brow furrowing as he tries to make sense of what exactly it is he’s doing. He realizes that Ed’s hand is extended, cupping a scrap of paper delicately in his palm. Ed looks...lost, as he stares down at it, reaching forward to trace his thumb along one edge.

“I found this,” he says, sounding very, very far away, “in your office drawer.” 

Oswald leans up to get a better view, finally catching a glimpse of shimmering black paper and carefully folded edges through Ed’s fingers.

Ah. Of course.

The paper origami penguin Ed had made him while in Arkham.

Oswald gives Ed a tight smile, fully aware he doesn’t see it, mesmerized as he is by the object in his palm. He reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out the matching penguin, carefully depositing it into Ed’s hand next to its brethren. 

Ed sucks in a sharp breath at the sight of it.

“How on Earth did you hold on to them all this time?” he asks, astonished. 

Oswald purses his lips, his face heating with embarrassment. He gives a little shrug, a poor attempt, he knows, at nonchalance.

“I, well, you know,” he pats a self-conscious hand over his pocket, “the first one remained in the manor, in my desk drawer, as you’ve discovered. But the second, well...I didn’t spend much more time here after I received it. So I stored it, here or there, wherever I was. As you’d do with anything.”

_Anything that matters to you_ , he pointedly doesn’t say.

“Why wasn’t it on the sub with your other possessions?” Ed asks, dark eyes curious and sharp.

“I—I guess I just thought it might give us a spot of good luck, to keep it on my person. For the voyage ahead,” Oswald confesses.

And so he’d have a part of Ed to carry with him, once he had finally decided to let him go. He doesn’t say that, either.

"Rather sentimental of you," Ed says quietly.

"Yes, well," Oswald shoots him a self-deprecating smile, "it's not the first time I've been accused of such, and I’m sure it will hardly be the last."

One corner of Ed’s mouth lifts in a half-smile, his brown eyes turning so unbearably warm and fond Oswald has to duck his head away from his gaze. 

“Oh! Also,” Ed adds, voice pitching slightly upward in excitement as he pulls a sheet of paper out from behind his back, “I found this.”

He presents the much more flat and traditionally shaped sheet to Oswald with a flourish. 

Oswald blinks at it, uncomprehending.

“It’s the deed to Barbara’s club!” Ed exclaims, waving it emphatically. “Or, allow me to correct myself, the deed to _your_ club.”

He taps a finger against the table top to emphasize the declaration. 

Oswald scrunches his face, parsing through the implications. Then his eye widens with sudden realization. 

"Ed," Oswald says, momentarily robbed of his senses as he clasps the heel of Ed’s hand, "you’re brilliant."

As soon as he realizes what he’s done, Oswald releases Ed’s palm, the connotations of the gesture registering just a moment too late. But Ed hardly seems to notice, the returning grin he gives Oswald entirely earnest, without even the usual sardonic trace around the edges. 

The bout of nervousness passes, and Oswald lets out a pleased laugh, Ed’s giddiness infectious, as it so often is. 

“Ed,” Oswald says, riding the elated high of the moment as he motions to a chair, “please sit. You’ve been in that office for hours, doing god only knows what. Sit down and eat something, and we can start planning our next steps.” 

Oswald doesn’t know what he expects, but it’s certainly not for Ed to obediently take the chair beside him with an easygoing shrug of his shoulders, a surprisingly nonchalant “alright” murmured in agreement. 

And so they pass the evening together doing just that, the manor dining room filling up with the excited chatter of their scheming. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea of pickpocketing as a form of flirtation shamelessly borrowed from Ernst Lubitsch’s 1932 romantic comedy _Trouble in Paradise._ And additional shoutout to alitbitmoody/arcanemoody, without whom I never would have watched that film!
> 
> As always, if you get a chance, drop me a comment, a keyboard smash, incoherent feels, etc.! I love getting to hear what you guys think, and also just flail about these two absolute morons together. <3


	4. Chapter 4

Oswald staggers down to the dining room table the next morning, the smell of cooking wafting impossibly through the air rousing him from his slumber. He slumps heavily into the chair at the head of the table, clad only in his pajamas and his father’s loose-fitting robe, the haze of sleep and the upheaval of the past few days clinging to him.

And then, suddenly, there's Ed, striding into the dining room fully dressed in a dark olive suit, hair-slicked back and plate in hand. 

Oswald grips the edge of the table, his knuckles going white as he follows the line Ed cuts across the room. The likeness to his days as Oswald’s chief of staff is so exact as to be uncanny. Like a revenant of Oswald’s oft longed for past. 

"Good morning," Ed says cheerfully, sliding the plate of breakfast in front of him.

Oswald half expects him to tack on a "Mayor Cobblepot" at the end, though, gratefully, he doesn't.

At Oswald's lingering silence, Ed glances at his face, taking in his shell-shocked expression.

“What?” Ed asks, raising a challenging eyebrow, lips curling in amusement. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I’m not entirely sure I haven’t,” Oswald confesses, exposed eye still wide as he continues to stare up at him.

He can say with some certainty, that’s exactly what he’s seeing. A ghost from his past. The mocking imitation of a life lived and lost that he can never have again.

"Whatever you say," Ed says. 

Then the hint of a mischievous smile plays across his lips. 

"...Mr. Penguin," he tacks on cheekily, giving Oswald a wink that sends a tingling jolt up his spine. 

Oswald looks down at his plate. A French omelet, prepared to Oswald’s exact specifications, just the way he always likes it. A dish he’d dined on frequently during his time spent living in Ed’s apartment, because Ed seems determined to inadvertently kill him this morning. 

"Ed,” Oswald calls as he cuts off a slice and pops it into his mouth, “where on Earth did you get the ingredients to prepare this?"

"Oh,” Ed says, taking his place to Oswald’s left, “I nipped down to the corner store to pick up a few things while you were sleeping."

Oswald’s only response is to hum contentedly, too caught up in his breakfast to articulate further. It’s every bit as delicious as Oswald remembers, the taste almost as luxurious as the reminder that obtaining said foodstuff is no longer a pipe dream. More than a year spent in the hulled out shell of Gotham during No Man’s Land has turned even the simplest of tasks into the height of opulence. 

“I called Olga last night,” Oswald says once he’s regained his faculties enough to speak, “she’ll be joining us later today.” 

Ed nods as he takes a sip of his coffee, expression carefully neutral. The vague animosity between the pair is something Oswald neither understands nor wishes to discuss at any length. Olga’s presence while trying to get the house back in working order will prove invaluable. As long as she and Ed can tolerate each other, that’s all Oswald can hope for.

As Ed digs into his own meal, Oswald slices off a corner of his omelet and feeds it to Edward, sitting at his heel under the table. He pretends not to see the face human Ed makes in response, his utter loathing of the dog, like with Olga, as transparent as it is bemusing. 

They chat idly over breakfast, and it _does_ feel just like old times, save for the _Gotham Gazette_ crossword Ed would normally be filling out (no active press yet in these earliest days of reunification) and the clock ticking down the time until they’d need to hustle out the door down to City Hall for the day.

Oswald pointedly _doesn’t_ think about how big of a role nostalgia played in him choosing the location as his headquarters when the bridges blew, valiantly trying to ignore the place fond memories might have had in that decision.

Instead, he tries to just enjoy the moment, a morning spent with Ed once more. Smiles at the small things, like Ed passing him the butter dish, mid-sentence, without even having to be asked. Their domestic routine, that second nature they’d tried and failed to bury, back from the dead. 

  


Once they’ve finished their breakfast and Ed has cleared away the plates, they resolve to move into the sitting room and continue discussing strategy for restaking their claim of the city.

Oswald stands from his place at the head of the table, moving towards the chaise lounge. He stumbles into the tea trolley, hidden in his blindspot, the delicate China cups, antique silver pot, and his decanter of scotch wobbling precariously. 

Ed startles at the noise, then starts across the room to help, but he’s only taken a few steps before Oswald lets out a frustrated snarl and swipes his arm viciously across the surface of the tray. The contents cascade to the ground in a cacophony of shattering cups and broken glass. 

Ed winces, freezing mid-step. Oswald is drawn up to his full height, chest heaving, eyes wild, as though he’s spoiling for a fight.

“Oswald,” Ed says, chest suddenly tight, heart crushed in a vice-like grip, “I’m so sorry.”

Oswald holds up a hand, cutting him off. Then he slumps forward abruptly, as though all the fight has gone out of him. He stands there, fists clenched, arms hanging limply at his sides, shoulders hunched forward. He looks small and dejected, not at all the formidable force of nature he had been just a moment before. 

"Can you just—" he starts, lip trembling, voice low and so weary, "can you just pretend to be my best friend, for just a moment, and hug me?"

"I am your best friend," Ed says without thinking, and Oswald's face _crumples_ , the look he gives Ed _agonized_. 

"Of course," Ed amends in a rush, practically sprinting across the room, careless of the shattered glass as he pulls Oswald against his chest, long arms wrapping tightly around his shoulders.

Oswald buries his face against Ed, and Ed can feel one of his hands tightly clutching the lapel of Ed's jacket. Oswald's shoulders are shaking, and Ed isn't at all prepared when he lets out a muffled sob into Ed's shirt, the sound reverberating inside Ed's chest.

"Shh, shh," Ed shushes, smoothing his fingers tentatively over Oswald’s back, as soothing as he knows how to be, "I know. I know."

There's a brutal tenderness to it, to them, both painfully aware that these are the hands that have slapped Oswald, stroked guns across his throat. The same hands that have fixed his tie pin and cleaned his sleeve, helped him and healed him after his mother died.

"You’re my best friend, Oswald,” Ed mumbles into the crest of Oswald’s hair, conviction in his voice. “You have _always_ been my best friend.” 

Probably the only real friend Ed has ever had, if he’s being honest with himself. A skill he isn’t particularly practiced at. 

Oswald clutches the fabric of his jacket harder.

"Even when I was your worst enemy?"

Ed laughs, wrapping his arms even tighter around Oswald’s slight shoulders.

"I think so, yes. Even then."

"You're my best friend as well," Oswald admits. After a beat, he adds, with an unearthly perceptiveness, “The only true friend I think I’ve ever had.”

Oswald always has been better at being candid about himself than Ed.

With that, Oswald pulls back slightly from Ed’s embrace, avoiding Ed’s eyes as he wipes futilely at his face. 

Something in Ed’s chest constricts at the sight, Oswald trying desperately to put his guard back up, but still looking so...crushingly defenseless. 

Wordlessly, Ed reaches forward and cups Oswald’s chin. Oswald’s breath catches in his throat as Ed pulls out his pocket square and gently dries the tears from his cheeks, meticulously using the soft fabric to mop up every last trace of dampness. He tucks the makeshift handkerchief back into his pocket once he’s finished, his hand lingering on Oswald’s face. 

Then, before he can tamp down the compulsion, Ed is leaning forward and pressing a fleeting kiss to Oswald's forehead, just the faintest brush of lips against his hairline. He feels Oswald stiffen at the gesture.

“Well,” Ed says briskly, clasping his hands behind his back as he puts some distance between them, desperate to clear the stifling air that has suddenly filled the room, “the doctor suggested some exercises, to help accommodate for the loss of vision while you recover. Why don’t we give some of them a try, hmm?”

He raises an inquisitive eyebrow. Oswald gives a quick nod, his relief at having something to focus on that’s not their constant companion of unspoken tension transparent.

  


“No, Oswald,” Ed corrects a half hour later, reaching to steady the glass Oswald’s fingers have once again brushed but failed to grasp, “you’re doing that all wrong. You need to force parallax by moving your head side-to-side. Similar to a bird.”

He demonstrates, swivelling his head back-and-forth, privately pleased with the comparison.

“Edward!” Oswald snaps, clearly at the end of his already thin patience. “Is it _you_ that has suddenly found himself with the mutilated vision of a cyclops, listlessly pushing around glasses on the dining room table, as though that will help at all in a fight that’s life-or-death?!”

He gestures emphatically at the contents of the china cabinet Ed had dutifully lined up around the table, nearly upending the closest half-full tumbler with a violent wave of his hand.

Ed instinctively straightens the tottering glass then sits back, dropping his hand into his lap, suitably chastened.

“No,” he admits. “I’m sorry, Oswald.”

Oswald blinks at him, visibly taken aback. 

“Apology accepted.”

A beat passes before Ed breaks the silence, no longer unable to resist the urge to chide, “But, if you’d just stop being so stubborn—”

"Isn't that somewhat counterintuitive to the exercise?" Oswald cuts in flatly. 

"Just," it’s Ed’s turn to let out a frustrated huff, "let me help you."

Oswald looks at him with his one pale eye, expression wary.

"I need to learn to do it myself," Oswald says. "I can't rely on someone else to always be there."

There’s something implicit in his tone, something _larger_ than Ed simply trying to help him with his eye training exercises, that remains unspoken. 

It's not difficult to read between the lines. Oswald can't depend on _Ed_ not to cut and run in a sticky situation. To drop everything and everyone when it behooves him. Or even just when the whim strikes.

It's a perfectly reasonable concern, but the revelation still stings in Ed's chest.

Ed has no right to resent Oswald’s self-reliance. He’s a fiercely independent man, a survivor, and he always has been. He’s had to be, to make it this long in this city. It’s a commendable quality, something Ed has always admired about him. His ability to keep standing when weaker men would have folded entirely.

But there’s some deep, buried part of Ed that wishes he would rely on _him_ , the way he used to. That Oswald would let him in again. Some old, forgotten voice seeking approval, or purpose, begging Oswald to see that he’s useful. More than that. Trustworthy.

He supposes he lost that right a long time ago, destroyed in their game of mutually assured self-destruction. 

"Well,” he says, yielding, “allow me to assist you in preparing for that inevitability, then."

Oswald makes a face, crossing his arms over his chest.

“We might have started with something _other_ than my top shelf whiskey,” he gripes, petulant.

Ed’s lips twitch.

“I was just trying to make sure you were taking the exercise seriously.”

Oswald glares at him, that single green eye icy. 

“Don’t be a bastard,” he says, crass in his irritation.

“I’m not entirely sure I know how else to be,” Ed admits dryly, trying to hide his amusement.

Oswald huffs.

“Well, _that’s_ certainly true. And you were such a _nice_ boy when I met you all those years ago in the GCPD,” he muses, sounding wistful, but there’s something insincere in his tone, mocking.

Ed tilts his head, considering.

“No, I wasn’t,” he finally admits.

“No,” Oswald agrees, looking pleased, “you weren’t. You were just used to being around people too foolish to notice. And a department full of so-called _detectives_ at that." 

Ed feels his eyebrows creeping up toward his hairline like the surprise creeping up his spine. Stranger still, he feels a small smile curling at the corners of his mouth. A warm glow of pleasure unfurls in his stomach at Oswald’s jab at the GCPD...but, more so, at his astute observations of Ed himself.

"I knew that game well. Though I was never half so good at pretending not to be nasty as _you_ were." 

“Pretending,” Ed says, measured, “is overrated.”

Oswald’s eye lights up, delighted at the revelation.

“I couldn’t agree more,” he says, giving Ed’s forearm a jovial pat.

“So you’re saying,” Ed says slowly, lips twitching, “that I _should_ be a bastard?”

Oswald sputters, before holding up his hands in defeat.

“You know what? I suppose you’ve got me there.”

Ed doesn’t say anything, just bites back another smile as he silently lines up the glasses, gesturing for Oswald to go again. Oswald sighs, but does as instructed, shocking Ed with his lack of complaint as he reaches for the first tumbler. 

  


Ed crosses the green of the manor’s back garden at a slow, steady pace, keeping in step with Oswald. The target he’d found in one of the spare bedrooms, no doubt an old money relic of past Van Dahls hunting for sport, is slung over his shoulder.

“We need you up to firing shape,” he observes, setting up the target on one end of the lawn, “you never know when you’ll need to shoot your way out of something in Gotham.”

Oswald’s shoulders are tense, his favorite pistol hanging loosely at his side as Ed comes to stand behind him.

“Besides,” he admits begrudgingly, “you’ll fare more favorably, in a fight. You always were a better shot than I was.”

“Ed,” Oswald says, surprisingly charitable, “I have _years_ of lived experience on you.” 

Ed preens silently, just out of sight. Then, he brandishes a hand towards the target with a showman’s flourish, urging Oswald to begin. 

Oswald loads the gun without so much as faltering, his newly impaired vision not hindering him in the slightest. Muscle memory, from a man who knows his weapon inside and out.

He takes aim and fires, the sound of the shot ringing out through the open space of the backyard.

The bullet hits two rungs to the right of center. By no means anything to sneer at, but a far cry from Oswald’s usual pinpoint precision, as evidenced by the sudden slump of his shoulders and the exasperated noise he makes in the back of his throat. 

Ed approaches him quickly from behind. He leans forward and hooks his chin over Oswald's shoulder, covering his own right eye with one hand. Oswald, to his credit, starts slightly but doesn’t move, steady beneath Ed’s sudden weight. He turns his face slightly, his breath brushing against Ed’s cheek as he considers him.

"What on Earth are you doing?" he asks, wary and mildly suspicious.

"Seeing things through your eyes,” Ed clarifies, “just for a moment."

“Eye,” Oswald corrects.

“Precisely.” 

"You're enjoying this," Oswald grumbles.

Ed can't suppress the laughter that bubbles up in his throat.

"Only a little, I promise," he says, contrite.

He reaches around and grasps Oswald’s wrist, adjusting his aim just slightly.

“Edward,” Oswald scoffs, and Ed doesn’t have to look at him to _know_ he’s rolling his eyes, “I know how to hold a gun.”

“There,” Ed says, ignoring him, focused on positioning the pistol as carefully as he can. “Now, give it another try.”

He lets go of Oswald’s arm but doesn’t step back, bracing his palms on Oswald’s shoulders. 

Oswald pulls the trigger and shoots, the reverberations from the gun firing thrumming through Oswald’s body and into Ed's hands.

This time, Oswald hits dead center. Bullseye. 

Oswald lets out a surprisingly carefree exclamation of excitement, his body rocking back slightly into Ed’s with the force of his shout. Ed squeezes his shoulders, pleased. 

Ed can smell the faint aroma of Oswald’s cologne, spicy yet sweet, tickling at his nose. Oswald's body is pressed up against his, warm and close, and he can feel the sharp line of Oswald’s collarbones beneath his palms, his body heat radiating through his coat. 

And Ed wants, sudden and aching, like a flame lit within him. It’s visceral, pumping red hot through his veins, an intoxicating rush. He can practically _feel_ his pupils dilating with it, desire dark and deep. It takes all his willpower not to just turn his face and bury it in Oswald's hair, breathe him in.

He's wanted Oswald in the past, of course he has. Even with as many mind games as he's played with himself to deny it, he could never truly be fooled, not entirely. 

But this time, it's different. For once, he doesn’t try to suppress it. Doesn’t try to bury the urge down inside a deep, forbidden place within himself. An appetite only to be pulled out and turned over late at night, alone in his bed, sweat beading on his forehead, a hand shoved down his pants.

This time, he just lets himself _want_.

“Ed?” Oswald calls suddenly, breaking Ed out of his reverie. 

The confusion in his voice is transparent, a clear sign this isn’t the first time he’s said Ed’s name.

“I’m sorry,” Ed blurts, inhaling sharply as he goes to take a step back, "I'm sorry, I just—"

"Ed, wha—" Oswald starts, turning around in the circle of Ed’s arms.

And then they’re abruptly chest to chest, Oswald’s face tipped back so that he’s staring straight into Ed’s eyes. Oswald’s voice dies in his throat, his breath hitching. Ed can see that his pupil has widened, luminous and black, as he stares up at Ed, entranced. Ed flushes at the intense, smoldering gaze that has cropped up between them, their bodies still pressed tightly together.

They’re so close, all Ed would have to do is duck down, just a hair, and they’d be kissing. 

Ed licks his lips reflexively, and Oswald’s gaze drops down to his mouth. The air between them evaporates, and all Ed can think about is the space between his lips and Oswald’s, how sparse it suddenly seems.

Ed sways forward, just ever so slightly, and he’s certain Oswald does the same. 

Suddenly, a voice rings out in Russian from the house.

They spring apart guiltily, like two teenagers caught making out on the sofa by a nosy, overprotective mother.

"Olga!" Oswald blurts in a rush. "I should—"

He gestures frenziedly back at the manor.

"Yes," Ed says, equally as hurried, "yes, yes, of course."

Ed’s heartbeat rabbits in his neck as he watches Oswald’s retreating back, heading for the house. Oswald's made it halfway across the lawn before he stops, turning abruptly.

"Ed?" he calls out.

"Oswald?" Ed calls back, cringing internally at the breathless lilt in his own voice.

"Thank you," Oswald says, achingly earnest, "for your help today. It means—well. Just. Thank you."

And then he turns and continues his purposeful stride toward the manor before Ed has a chance to say anything in return.

  


As a child, Ed had a tendency to take things apart. Watches, bikes, the rare mouse that had the misfortune of wandering into their usually spotless, sprawling apartment on Waterbury. Anything he could get his hands on. He had a compulsive need to understand, to disassemble the parts and see how things ticked. He was fairly good at putting them back together again, too. (Except for the mouse, of course.)

The inclination had gotten him backhanded across the face more than once.

Still, the rough impact of his father’s hand had failed to deter his predilection. Even now, there was nothing quite like the satisfaction of being able to click disparate puzzle pieces into place. To form a full picture from jagged edges that didn’t seem to fit.

Ed stands over his dresser, hands on his hips, surveying his hoard. The origami penguins, standing shoulder to shoulder, an army of two. His and Oswald’s matching framed certificates of sanity, the glass of Ed’s own shattered, that he’d found shoved behind a chair in the portrait room. A clipping from a newspaper published in the wake of Oswald’s election, which Ed had retrieved from the photo album shoved under Oswald’s bed. It’s a candid of the two of them creased in the middle, the article cut away. The Ed and Oswald in the photo beam at each other, caught entirely unaware, their smiles glowing up at Ed in plain black-and-white. 

Ed had found them, squirreled away all around the house. Trinkets and mementos, clues, into Oswald’s tender heart, hoarded alongside his mother’s antique cigarette holder and a worn photograph of Martín in a Gotham Academy uniform. His vulnerabilities tucked away, concealed where his love can’t be used against him. Hidden in drawers, out of sight. Guarded from those who might exploit him. Guarded from _Ed_. 

But Ed is _here_ , in amongst the other debris of Oswald’s oft shattered heart. Lingering, alongside Oswald’s beloved mother, his sequestered away protégé. A piece of the puzzle, charred but still in tact. 

There is, in fact, a list, in Ed’s head, with two columns. Checks and balances on each side. 

The steady thrum of uncertainty grips his throat, like ripping petals off a flower.

_He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me. He loves me not._

Ed had missed it, before. Which meant it was entirely possible, if not _actively plausible_ , that he was misreading the signals again.

He swallows down a creeping, uncommon sense of rising shame as his eidetic memory ever-so-helpfully supplies a list of his many vicious and personal past betrayals of Oswald. His internal voice then follows it up with an enumeration of the countless ways they’d hurt each other throughout the handful of years they’d been acquainted. 

Could any love, even the most hopelessly and ardently devoted, survive in the face of all of that? Why should Oswald’s love, which he had painstakingly worked to banish before Ed’s very eyes, linger after all this time?

But then, surely, Oswald has said it, in actions if not in words. He hadn't even faltered before shielding Ed from the grenade. Put his own life on the line. Lost an eye in the process. Surely, such an act is nothing if not an inarguable gesture of _love_. 

_Love is about sacrifice._

His own voice rings in his head, the terms for love Ed had fiercely defined in the wake of his and Oswald’s falling out. It’s a sentiment that makes him swallow hard now. From giving up his revenge on Sofia Falcone to resurrecting Ed _and_ his deadly ex-lover, Oswald certainly has, in recent years. Sacrificed. For Ed. 

Had, even then. Death at Barbara’s hand staring him straight in the face, Oswald had been willing to lay down and die for him. He _had_ , at Ed’s own hand. 

And it seems, even after all this time, he still _would_. He'd jumped on that grenade without a second thought.

The guilt is new, though it's growing familiar, bitter and acidic in Ed’s mouth. Ed has spent a good deal of his adult life absconding from guilt, always capable of locating another root cause. 

The actions of others driving him to the brink. The deeds of his own evil alter ego. Fate

Ironic, then, the guilt clawing up his throat, this time not for something he _did_ , but for something he _didn’t_ do. Moreover, for failing to do anything _at all_.

_It's the least I could do_. The words echo in Ed's head. Mocking. Taunting.

This, an action far more than anything else _anyone_ had ever done for Ed.

_It's the_ least _I could do._

What else could that possibly mean?

And that was to say nothing of all the little hints and gestures piling up between them since then. Of the breathless way Oswald had seemed as caught up in the moment as Ed had, out on the manor’s grounds, before Olga had oh-so-rudely interrupted them with her impeccably poor timing. There’s no way, in the moment, Oswald hadn’t been feeling it too.

He must return Ed’s affections. He must. Ed's certain of it. 

Almost certain.

He's just going to have to prove it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, if you get a chance, drop me a line and let me know what you thought! I genuinely cherish every comment. It's a delight to hear what you guys have to say! <3


	5. Chapter 5

There’s a long buried intimacy simmering up between them, Oswald reflects, unable to sleep as the first dim rays of dawn break across his bedroom floor. And the thing is, they’ve fallen back into it so _easily_. That casual, familiar way they’d had with one another back when Oswald was mayor crops back up between them as though it never went anywhere at all. Like slipping on an old, well-worn glove. 

Apart from his dearly departed mother, there’s no one Oswald has ever been as close to as Ed, no one he has ever been more vulnerable with. Ed had seen his tears at his mother’s death, known Oswald at his lowest point. He knows the words to his mother’s favorite lullaby. Tended his wounds. Saved his life. Helped him get dressed in the mornings. He’d laughed with him, he’d killed with him. Shared Oswald’s home and his meals and his life in all the ways that mattered. All but one. 

Oswald can feel it brimming between them now, all that history rising up like the buried in Gotham so often do.

In recent days, Ed has taken to...touching him again. He already had, in increments, after the incident with Penn. Begun reaching out for Oswald again. And they’ve only increased since their relocation to the manor. Inconsequential, friendly little gestures that seem monumental in the face of everything they’ve been through. 

He starts looping Oswald’s arm through his to help guide him, puts a warm hand in the small of his back if he can’t take his elbow. Touches Oswald’s knee, fingers light and quick, when he wants his attention. Brushes lint off his jacket with a gentle swipe of his hand. Casual, thoughtless touches, the kind which are all too reminiscent of their fast, early friendship. Cozier, even, than during those halcyon days. 

On top of that, Ed has been acting... _odd_ , lately, even for him. Or, perhaps not _odd_ , exactly. _Different_.

He’s taken to doing things like...opening doors for Oswald. Indoors. Inside Oswald’s own home. Even when doing so requires Ed to rush across the room and nearly bowl Oswald over in the process. Oswald had snapped at him exactly once, pointing out that he wasn’t a complete invalid and that he was more than capable of opening his own _door_ , for heaven’s sake. 

The brief look of hurt that flashed over Ed’s face at the outburst had more or less resigned Oswald to his fate. Though the comment _had_ broken Ed of the habit of dashing across the room to do so. At least, _most_ of the time.

Or, there was the morning they’d been out on their habitual stroll around the manor grounds and had come across a patch of wild lilies growing on the edge of lawn. Ed had let go of Oswald’s arm momentarily, stooped down and broken off a handful of the flowers at the stem. 

He’d stood up and pressed the arrangement against Oswald’s chest.

“Here.” 

Oswald had blinked up at him, perplexed. 

“What on Earth for?”

Ed’s shrug at the time seemed practiced in its casualness.

“They remind me of you.”

Which is to say nothing of that moment they’d shared during their impromptu round of target practice. 

Oswald flushes even just thinking about it. 

He'd almost... _they'd_ almost...hadn't they? 

At least, he'd _thought_ , just for a moment, that Ed had been leaning in to...to _kiss_ him. He’d swayed forward, just a hair, a motion so subtle it was nearly imperceptible. The air had been so thick and tense between them, Oswald thought he might choke on it. 

If nothing else, he could admit he had _wanted_ Ed to kiss him in that moment, desperate longing thrumming in every inch of his body. That nauseated yearning churned once more in his stomach, like he’d been sent hurtling backwards through time, to the sitting room again, the firelight glinting off Ed’s glasses as he said those entrancing words. _I would do anything for you_.

Oswald’s heart had nearly frozen in his chest in the brief, flashing instant he thought Ed actually would. Until Olga had arrived, with a timing so perfectly mood shattering, it would have made his own mother proud.

But Ed hadn’t _said_ anything about it since, and there’d certainly been no similar disrupted opportunities between them in the days that followed. So perhaps it was a trick of the light, or Oswald’s own wishful thinking getting the better of him, swept up in the moment. Perhaps it had been nothing at all.

The missed moment nags at him, incessant in the back of his head. 

If he was a bolder, braver man, he’d say something about it. 

But he can’t risk that. He just can’t. 

He’s learning, day-by-day, that he’s not too far removed from the man that had sat in that firelight, squandering his chance to kiss Edward Nygma. Not nearly as far as he’d like. 

  


Sunlight spills into the hallway, casting everything in a hazy glow as Oswald raps on Ed’s door. It’s still early morning, so he’s clad in only his pajamas and a robe. He pulls the fabric tightly around himself, a meager attempt to fend off the slight draft that permeates the hall.

The door opens a sliver, and Ed’s head pops around it, curious brown eyes peering at Oswald expectantly. 

"Good morning,” Oswald says with a sleepy nod. “I just wanted to let you know that the tailor called. He’ll be here in about an hour."

“Oh, of course!” Ed says brightly. “Actually, could you come in for a moment? There’s something I’ve been meaning to run by you.”

Ed takes a step back and opens the door fully, ushering Oswald inside before he even has a chance to assent. 

Once he’s stepped into the room, Oswald realizes Ed is also still adorned in nothing more than his sleepwear. A thin white t-shirt and green plaid sleep shorts, so ridiculously tiny they make his long legs seem to stretch even longer. Oswald’s mouth goes inexplicably dry.

It’s not _exactly_ a foreign sight, given the circumstances under which they had become formally acquainted. But it’s certainly far more bare _skin_ than Oswald is accustomed to. On the handful of occasions he had seen Ed dressed down in the past, his nighttime wear consisted primarily of cotton shirts and full-length pajama pants. Paired with a robe, even, once Ed had started living in the manor. All a bit more...modest than his current attire.

He has no idea how Ed isn’t _freezing_. 

Although, if he’s being quite honest, the room is starting to feel a bit warm to him as well, the air suddenly stifling enough to choke on. 

“What is it, Ed?” Oswald asks once he’s recovered his faculties enough to speak. He winces at the gravel in his voice. 

In the interim of Oswald’s gawping, Ed has thrown open the closet doors, pulling down his wardrobe for the day. A pair of brown slacks. A white dress shirt. His worn green sweater. Oswald watches as Ed casually tosses the garments over an armchair near the dresser.

“I’ve just been thinking,” he says conversationally, fingers trailing near his waistband as he turns to Oswald, “about our plans, once we return to our post on the mainland.”

Then, without even so much as a word of warning, Ed drops his pajama shorts, and Oswald’s brain promptly short circuits. He has to forcibly bite down on his lip to stop the startled sound from escaping his throat, averting his gaze so fast, he thinks he might get whiplash. 

Oswald screws his eyes shut momentarily, trying to collect himself, but it’s a futile effort. The fleeting glimpse of Ed’s green briefs is seared into the back of his eyelids. He takes a deep breath through his nose, opening his eyes once more.

Out of the peripheral of his good eye, Oswald can see the flash of Ed’s bare back as he tugs his t-shirt over his head, quickly replaced by a white button-down. He’s aware of Ed’s lips moving, tracking the motion from the corner of his eye, but for the life of him he can’t make out a single word Ed is saying. 

“Oswald?” Ed calls, finally penetrating the white static currently buzzing in Oswald’s ears. 

The faint trace of exasperation in Ed’s voice makes it clear he’s repeating himself. 

"...What?!" Oswald asks, voice tinny, too sharp and too loud. 

Ed clears his throat, and Oswald takes the cue to turn back around and face him. In spite of a private pang of disappointment, Oswald is relieved to find Ed fully dressed once more, neatly tucking his shirt tails into his slacks. 

Oswald looks up at Ed, more than happy to continue their conversation now that they’re back on safer ground. 

If he didn’t know any better, he’d say the slight upturn of Ed’s lips was a _smirk_. 

"I asked,” Ed says , “what you thought of me reopening the Riddle Factory, once we begin taking steps to resume our hold over the city?"

The mention of Ed’s old haunt stokes an irrational flare of jealousy in Oswald’s gut. The Riddle Factory means the Narrows, and Oswald can no longer sever the connection between the place and Lee Thompkins—and Ed's ill begotten affair with her—in his mind. He has no doubt, as the city begins to rebuild, the good doctor will be resuming her practice there. 

Whether she took up her mantle as queen once more or not remained to be seen. But the Riddle Factory would put Ed back into _Lee’s_ territory, and thus back into close proximity with her again. 

Perhaps that was Ed’s intention.

“Back in the Narrows?" he asks, feigning an air of casual indifference.

Ed frowns, considering. 

"The people of the Narrows are certainly desperate enough,” Ed admits with a tilt of his head. “But I'm not sure that would behoove me, while we’re getting back on our feet. I was planning to play for cash, for now. Get more colorful over time. Perhaps, at some point, I might move back to the Narrows. Once we’re better established and less strapped in terms of revenue."

Oswald attempts to school his features, tempering his expression so the relief doesn’t show quite so visibly on his face.

"You'll do as you please regardless of my input, Ed,” he says airly, “there's no use in pretending otherwise."

“Of course,” Ed says, and there’s a stubborn set to his jaw. After a beat, he adds in a low undertone, “But a _little_ bit of affirmation wouldn’t be remiss.”

Oswald’s lips twitch.

"Edward," he says, put upon, "it's not as though you need my validation. You've been doing just fine on your own without it for the last few years."

"No," Ed nods in curt concession, "I don't _need_ it."

There's a dangerous edge to the word, and Oswald shrugs his shoulders as though to say 'well, there you go.'

"That doesn't mean I don't _enjoy_ it," Ed mutters under his breath.

Oswald does a double take, sure he must have misheard. Ed's practically made a career out of insisting, loudly, and to anyone and everyone who will listen, just how much he _doesn't_ need gratification, or anything else, from Oswald Cobblepot.

"I suppose," Oswald allows with a slight quirk of his head, not looking at Ed, " _any_ expression of admiration is catnip to that frankly _enormous_ ego of yours."

Ed rears back in surprise. He’s so taken aback he lets out a sputtering bark of laughter, and Oswald finds himself actually _grinning_ , though he attempts to hide it behind his fist. Unsuccessfully so, if the way Ed’s smile widens, showing all his teeth, is anything to go by.

In amongst all the startling tender moments they’ve been sharing, catching Oswald off guard, there is also _this_. Arguments turned to amicable bickering. Slight digs at each other’s expense, jabs as familiar as the sound of old jazz records and the sight of Ed in pajamas. Comments that had once contained the pointed edge of a blade running underneath, ready to cut through skin. Their cutting remarks transformed over time, the biting edge of their enmity finally dulled to a harmless whisper of metal against skin. 

Instead of pointed, it's... _pleasant_ , bordering on _teasing_. 

There's something to it, he supposes. This new status quo. He means every pleasantly scathing word he says, and he knows for Ed it’s the same. But it’s not like the ways others have so frequently belittled them in the past. Not even like the ways they once disparaged each other. In place of comments laced with an underlying disgust, there’s a sturdy foundation of mutual respect. Oswald holds no one in higher regard than Ed. Sees no one as his equal in the same way Ed is. There’s never been anyone else. 

Oswald worries how much he should trust it. 

In truth, he's having too much fun to stop.

Ed tilts his head to the side, brown eyes dancing, still grinning from ear-to-ear. A clear sign of imminent surrender

“I suppose,” he allows, voice smooth as he drawls out the words, “you _are_ right.”

Check and mate. 

  


Oswald makes his way steadily up the manor’s steep staircase, aware even himself of the unsteady rhythm of his gait. His leg is flaring up today more than usual, and that combined with his continued steady adjustment to the loss of vision slows him. He’d assume that a storm was on the way, but it’s a surprisingly sunny day, even for the outskirts of Gotham. Perhaps the soil of the city has poisoned him, turned his body topsy turvy, and his injuries ache from sunlight rather than rain. It would honestly be rather fitting.

He finds Ed and the tailor, as expected, in the fitting room of his father’s old workshop. Ed is standing on the leather foot stool, the added height making him tower farther heavenward than even his usual stature affords. Oswald watches as the wizened old tailor tugs down on the cuff of his pant leg, putting those final finishing touches into place. He had managed to track down Mr. Bernstein, a former contact of the Van Dahls who relocated to the outskirts of the city when the bridges fell, and commission him to create a few new pieces to add to their respective wardrobes. An attempt, on Oswald’s part, to better attire them in the manner they had grown accustomed. 

Oswald leans against the archway for support, taking a moment to soak in the sight. The floor to ceiling windows cast the room in soft, white light, illuminating the angles of Ed’s profile in a deceptive halo of glittering gold.

Ed catches him in his periphery, making Mr. Bernstein cluck his tongue when he turns to face Oswald without warning, his grin blinding. 

"What do you think?" Ed asks, holding his arms aloft, that dramatic showman’s flare he’s so fond of. 

Oswald can admit to his...preoccupation with Ed’s body, having memorized his measurements long before even he fully registered the connotations his careful consideration of the dip of Ed’s waist and long line of his legs might imply. He’s tried in recent years—this morning’s incident notwithstanding—to break himself of the habit, no longer permitting his eyes to linger over long. 

But Ed did _ask_ , in this instance, how the suit looked. His opinion has been solicited, making it necessary, rather than uncouth, to drink in the sight of Ed dressed once more to the nines

Oswald feels a fond pang in his chest as he looks at him. The new suit fits Ed perfectly, clinging to him in all the right places, the smooth crisp lines highlighting his pleasingly sharp angles and narrow hips. Though there's no _visible_ glitter on this one, the metallic sheen of the fabric gives it a shimmer, and it's so green it practically glows. It’s Ed back in his element, as Oswald has grown to know him in the past few years—a glittering green star on the horizon, bright and loud and not to be overlooked. Not ever again. 

Oswald’s throat clenches at the thought, a strange swirl of pride and loss in his ribcage. Pride at the man Ed has forged himself into, loss for who he once was, before this city and Oswald had helped burn him into something brighter and sharper. Deadly, like the glint of a knife’s blade. 

Ed gives a sudden twirl, jostling Oswald from his thoughts. Oswald has to choke back a laugh at Ed’s antics, his valiant attempt to show off his new suit from all angles.

“Well?” Ed asks, raising an eyebrow.

"You look...like yourself, again," Oswald concedes with a tight smile.

Ed practically beams in response. Then he hops down from the stool, surprisingly graceful, a spring in his step. 

"The clothes do make the man," he says, tugging the lapels of his jacket into place with a satisfied nod as he admires himself in the mirror.

“And who taught you that?” Oswald asks, arms folded over his chest as he continues to appraise him. 

Ed reaches out in a flash, Oswald going cross-eyed as Ed’s index finger suddenly comes at his face. Then he bops Oswald on the tip of the nose.

"You did."

At that moment, Mr. Bernstein finally reaches out and captures Ed’s ankle long enough to check the hem, Ed’s own delighted inspection of his suit managing to keep him still for the duration. 

Once he has finished, the tailor stands and approaches Oswald, mouth opening in query. 

“You can pick up your payment from Olga on the way out,” Oswald cuts him off with a dismissive wave of his hand. 

As Bernstein disappears into the hall, Ed turns to him with a furrowed brow, brights eyes studying Oswald curiously.

“He’s custom made at least five of these suits for me, and I _know_ they aren’t inexpensive. How exactly _are_ you paying him?”

“It’s not important,” Oswald says, turning on his heel to head out of the room, a ditch effort to evade Ed’s line of questioning.

Ed, of course, quickly sprints around Oswald and cuts him off at the archway. Curse him and his long, spindly legs. 

“Oswald,” he says, low and drawn out, that familiar warning edge to his voice.

Oswald lets out a defeated sigh, shoulders slumping slightly.

“If you must know,” he says, raising his head with a feigned air of haughtiness, “it’s more of a trade, really. Mr. Bernstein was interested in procuring some of my father’s vintage fabrics, left over from his days in the business, as well as a few of his custom suits. It seemed like a reasonable demand, given the circumstances.”

Ed’s expression doesn’t change, but his jaw twitches near imperceptibly.

“You—you traded him your father’s suits?” 

Oswald tries not to stare at the sharp, dark line that has appeared suddenly between Ed’s eyebrows.

“Yes, well, an-eye-for-an-eye and all that. It’s not as though they were getting any use.”

Oswald swallows futilely at the lump that has formed in his throat. Even he can hear the melancholy that clings to his words.

Ed places a hand on his shoulder and squeezes, a comforting gesture. It’s dangerous, how familiar such gestures are beginning to feel. 

“Thank you, Oswald. It’s very kind of you.”

Oswald scoffs with a self-effacing shake of his head.

“Think nothing of it, my friend.”

Ed smiles at him, warm and soft, eyes crinkling at the corners, hand still steady on Oswald’s shoulder. Oswald feels his heart flutter traitorously in his chest, the portrait of a schoolgirl cliche.

  


Oswald comes into the dining room just as Ed ignites the wick on the last of the candles. 

The lighting is low, candles illuminating the table. Keely Smith’s jazzy tones croon in the background. A bouquet of wild lilies sits at the center of the table, alongside fine china from the antique hutch. 

“What’s all this?” Oswald asks, blinking around in confusion at the scene before him. 

“I am broken amongst friends to sustain and entertain. When you share me, enemies it is difficult to remain. What am I?” At the sight of Oswald’s mouth drooping down into a frown, Ed rushes to supply the answer. “A meal!”

He rubs his hands together before spreading his arms out to encompass the table. 

"I made us dinner!"

With that, Ed reaches forward and pulls out the chair at the head of the table, gesturing for Oswald to sit. 

Oswald gives him a wry look but says nothing as he takes his place, evidently humoring him. A vast improvement over Ed’s previous attempts at chivalry, which had earned him only Oswald’s ire and an entirely uncalled for tantrum for his trouble. 

“Where’s Olga?” Oswald asks offhandedly as Ed ladles their dinner into two serving bowls. 

"I gave her the night off. Though, if I’m being honest, I wasn't certain she wasn't going to club me with a rolling pin for my cheek at the suggestion," Ed says dryly, sliding one of the bowls in front of Oswald.

As he takes his seat, pouring the Corbières into both their wine glasses, Ed can’t help but keep sneaking glances at Oswald’s face, attention rapt. His leg bounces under the table as Oswald brings the fork to his mouth, a spike of anticipation pumping through his veins.

Oswald freezes with the first bite, lips pursing in a grimace, as though he's tasted something particularly foul.

"Oh dear," Ed says, shoulders hunching slightly in disappointment. "No good? I tried to replicate the recipe as exactly as possible. It was my first attempt, so I'm sorry if I made a mess of it."

"This is my mother's goulash," Oswald says, knuckles white where he's clutching the edge of the table.

"Yes," Ed nods hesitantly, concern clouding his face at Oswald’s expression. "I managed to needle the recipe out of Olga. I apologize if it's not to your liking."

Oswald scoots his chair back with a harsh screech, standing abruptly.

"Excuse me," he says in a choked voice, staggering unsteadily out of the dining room.

Ed casts a calculating look down at the goulash, trying to make sense of what just happened.

Then he stands and goes after Oswald.

  


Ed finds him in the study on the second floor. He’s standing in the middle of the room, tumbler of scotch in hand, staring pensively up at his father’s portrait. A smaller rendition than the impressive display in the room off the dining area.

“Oswald?” Ed calls tentatively. “What’s wrong?”

Oswald starts at the sound of Ed’s voice. Then, he turns abruptly on his heel to face him, jabbing an accusing finger into his chest.

"Are you trying to sabotage me?!" Oswald demands, eyes flashing dangerously.

"Wh-what?!" Ed barks back, angry disbelief coloring his words. "Uh, _no_ , I wasn’t?! Believe it or not, I actually _thought_ Iwas doing something kind for you. But I can see now that my efforts have apparently been _woefully_ misdirected!"

He’s panting by the time he’s finished, shoulders trembling with the force of sudden, desperate frustration flooding his body. There’s a bitter twist in his stomach, to find what he _thought_ was a transparent gesture of affection instead met with only suspicion and paranoia from Oswald. 

Instead of the fight Ed knows he’s spoiling for, the anger drains from Oswald’s body at the words, leaving him looking hollow and washed out in it’s absence. He stumbles across the room and flops down onto the chaise lounge, staring off into the middle distance once more. 

Ed crosses his arms over his chest defensively, still looming awkwardly in the middle of the room. His fingers drum a nervous staccato against his elbow as he waits for Oswald to offer some kind of explanation. 

"Sofia Falcone," Oswald begins slowly, "invited me out to lunch to a small Hungarian restaurant when we were first getting acquainted. She insisted I try the goulash. It was my mother's recipe, down to the letter. All part of her larger plan to manipulate her way into my good graces."

Ed lets out a soft gasp, lungs seizing momentarily in his chest. He crosses the room in three quick strides and sinks onto the couch beside Oswald, careful to keep a respectful distance between them. 

The silence that’s fallen over the room is deafening.

When Ed finally finds his words again, they’re more accusatory than he’d like.

"Why on Earth would you let someone like Sofia Falcone get close to you?"

_So soon after me_ , he doesn't say.

"I was…lonely, I suppose," Oswald shoots him a rueful smile, a wry sort of bitterness clinging to his lip. "You said it yourself, Ed. I had no friends."

Ed shifts uncomfortably, hands fidgeting in his lap. He certainly _had_ said that, high and mighty in his bonds with the reanimated corpse of a man who hated him and the woman who would eventually quite literally stab him in the back. 

But part of Ed was still desperately seeking Oswald out, even then, as he mocked, ridiculed, and belittled him to his face. A deep pulse of recognition as true friendship, however charred, stared him right in the eyes. 

Oswald covers his face with his hands, letting out a sharp, broken laugh.

"And it worked like a charm, because I truly am that easy, apparently, when it comes to emotional manipulation. So forgive me, for my suspicions. The parallels were just too...uncanny, to ignore."

Ed fiddles nervously with the cufflink on his sleeve. 

"We sure know how to pick them, don't we?" he asks.

Oswald lets out an extremely undignified snort in response, and Ed risks a glance at his face. His expression is...softer, than before, but no less sad.

"It is Gotham," Oswald sighs, "I suppose we shouldn't be _that_ surprised."

"Oswald,” Ed adds, stilted in his deliberateness, “I—I didn't know."

Oswald gives him a rueful half smile.

"I know you didn’t."

He reaches over and squeezes Ed's wrist reassuringly. His hand lingers, just for a moment, and it takes everything in Ed’s power not to shift up into the warmth of Oswald’s palm. To resist the urge to grasp desperately for it, return that gentle heat to his skin, when Oswald pulls his hand away. 

"Well," Oswald continues, voice too light, "At least you can take comfort in knowing you recreated it exactly. So much so I couldn't prevent a twofold series of memories from resurfacing. I apologize. Even I hadn’t realized how apparently terrible I am at receiving kind gestures."

"Why shouldn’t you be?" Ed asks, throat tight with unspoken emotion.

"Following my heart has never worked out for me?" Oswald parrots, shooting Ed a smile that's weary around the edges.

"No," Ed says, swallowing hard. "It hasn't, has it?"

More than even Ed realized. More than even he knows.

Oswald gives Ed's knee a jocular tap before standing and taking his cane.

"If you’ll forgive me for my lack of hospitality, I believe I am going to retire for the evening."

Ed stands as well, giving him a curt nod, instinctively wrapping his arms around his own torso once more.

Oswald turns to face him, smile turning soft.

"Thank you for the goulash, Ed," he says, not a hint of insincerity in his voice. "It really was very thoughtful."

Ed nods, not trusting his voice not to wobble.

"Good night, Oswald," he finally manages to choke out at Oswald's retreating back. 

Oswald hesitates for a moment, hand on the door frame.

"Good night, Ed," he replies without turning around, so quiet Ed almost misses it.

Then he's gone.

Ed returns to the table, staring blankly at the meticulously prepared dinner spread out before him. He blows out the candles, then picks up their full bowls and takes them back into the kitchen. 

As he scrapes out Oswald's portion of goulash, a wave of nausea hits him, and he has to fight down the overwhelming urge to be sick. He mechanically cleans up the kitchen, a deep chill settling into his bones, from the ends of his fingertips all the way down.

Once he’s finished, Ed curls up with a book in front of the fireplace, too wired for bed. He tries, desperately, to lose himself in Wilde, but the words on the page blur in front of his eyes. Finally, around three o’clock, he drifts into a fitful sleep in the chair, shivering under Oswald's forgotten robe.

  


Ed is holding a heart in his hand, blood and gore spilling out through his fingertips. He can feel the _thump thump thump_ of it beating against his palm.

Oswald gently nudges Ed's fingers, urging him to close his fist around it.

"Take it," he insists. "It's yours."

Ed can see the pink, gaping hole in the center of Oswald's chest, the jagged edge of his waist coat where it’s been cut away. A cavern where his heart should be. 

He shakes his head violently.

"I can't take it," he whispers, voice trembling, "I'll kill it. Like all the ones before."

"You can't kill something that's already dead," Oswald says.

Ed watches in horror as the steadily beating heart turns black inside the cage of his fingers. Oswald's lips turn the same shade of black, seaweed clinging to his jacket. His pale skin grows sallow and gray, the ghostly glow of a water-logged corpse. Then he slips back into the harbor, disappearing beneath its inky depths.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mr. Bernstein's name is a slight variation/allusion to the name of the Gotham rogues' tailor in this fancomic: https://www.deviantart.com/terminaitor/art/Batman-The-Tailor-133622928. 
> 
> As always, all comments, kudos, and keyboard smashes welcome and appreciated!! <3 I'm always so excited to hear what you guys think as you follow the boys along on this ride.


	6. Chapter 6

Ed feels fingers brush lightly at his hairline. He hums contentedly, tilting his head into the touch.

Then, the implications of the sensation catch up with him. His whole body jerks as he wakes with a start, eyes flying open, forcibly dragging himself back into consciousness. Ed immediately lifts his arms to shield himself, on the defensive as he blinks blearily up at the figure standing next to the chair. 

Oswald yanks back his hand as though scalded. 

“Ed!” he snaps before softening his voice, his familiar high tones turning soothing as he holds up a placating hand. “Ed, it’s just me.”

Ed relaxes instinctively, lowering his arms as he sags once more into the chair’s soft cushions. As he squints into the bright morning sunlight, white and blinding as it spills in through the large, plate-glass window, he notes the crinkle around Oswald’s nose, the way his lips bunch painfully at the corners in a frown. He looks almost..sheepish. 

“Oswald?” Ed asks. “What time is it?” 

“Just after nine,” Oswald says with a sigh, sinking down into the chaise lounge to Ed’s right. 

Ed hears the clink of porcelain against porcelain as Oswald sets something on the table beside him. _Tea_ , his slowly stirring brain helpfully supplies, finally processing the sight of the delicate white cup and accompanying saucer.

“Did you sleep here all night?” Oswald asks.

There’s something tentative about the way he says it. Quiet, almost delicate. Ed glances up to find worry lines clinging to his forehead, genuine concern swimming in the pale green of his good eye. He feels an inexplicable stab of guilt in the face of it, such a transparent display of Oswald’s regard for him. 

“I was…working,” Ed lies, “brainstorming, going over various contingency plans. I must have just—fallen asleep. Without realizing.” 

Oswald glances dubiously down at the corner of _De Profundis_ sticking out from under Ed’s elbow, the book having become wedged between his body and the chair’s arm during the night. Ed tries to casually drape a fold of the robe he’s wearing over the cover, attempting to conceal the title. 

Oswald simply lifts his eyebrows, suggesting the move was less than convincing. An awkward silence falls between them, a stalemate born out of Ed’s own stubborn unwillingness to surrender. As they continue carefully contemplating one another, Oswald’s gaze suddenly sharpens, raking carefully over Ed’s body. 

Ed has to resist the urge to shudder, a tingle running up his spine at being pinned so suddenly under Oswald’s discerning stare. 

"Is that...my robe?" Oswald asks slowly, eye narrowing as his gaze lingers over the intricately patterned fabric draped over Ed’s frame. 

"You let me borrow it!” Ed blurts, the nonsensical flow of words his only explanation. 

At Oswald’s probing, confused look, he rushes to amend. 

“...Once,” he says, an attempt at clarification. “You let me borrow it _once_."

Ed pulls the robe more tightly around himself. Self-consciousness floods his body, itching under his skin. He wants nothing more, in that moment, than to sink into the armchair and disappear.

"Yes," Oswald agrees, suddenly stilted, “yes, you’re right. I most certainly did."

Ed looks up to find Oswald’s eye unfocused, staring through Ed, unseeing. Somehow, it’s even more nerve-wracking than Oswald’s earlier scrutiny. 

“Is that for me?” Ed asks, pointing at the teacup, desperate to seize upon any potential diversion. 

“Oh!” Oswald startles, snapping back to attention. “Yes!” 

He stands once more in a flurry, snatching up the teacup and presenting it to Ed, as though it had not just been within Ed’s fairly expansive arm’s reach. Ed takes the proffered cup with a tentative smile and nod, his fingers brushing lightly against Oswald’s as he grips the handle. 

Bringing the cup up to his face, he inhales deeply, relishing the scent. He sips at it gratefully, the robust, rich aroma of English breakfast clinging to his nose. 

Oswald continues to hover nervously at his knee, pale fingers worrying at the edge of his pajama sleeve. 

“Oswald?” Ed calls curiously, hoping to break him out of his unnerving silence. 

His words have the intended effect, Oswald’s body at last springing back into motion once more. 

He leans down abruptly, breath ghosting over Ed’s face. Ed practically goes cross eyed tracking the motion, Oswald close enough for him to take in the dark sweep of his eyelashes, the pale freckles across his nose. Then, Oswald brushes his lips against Ed’s cheek in a quick, chaste kiss. 

Ed’s breath hitches in his throat, too stunned to keep the quiet gasp from escaping his mouth. 

Oswald settles back on his heels, eye screwed firmly shut. Ed gapes up at him, utterly blindsided. He watches, transfixed, as Oswald peeks open his eye, peering down at him. His face is still tightly scrunched, almost wincing. Like he fears Ed’s reaction. 

_His cheeks_ _are pink_ , Ed notes absently.

"Oswald," he hears himself say, the words sounding breathless and far away, "what was that for?"

"To thank you. For last night," Oswald explains hurriedly, a sharp note of apology in his voice. “You prepared us a perfectly lovely meal, and...well. I spoiled it."

"Oswald," Ed says, shaking his head fervently, "you have _nothing_ to be sorry for. If anything, I feel like I owe you an apolo—"

Oswald holds up a hand, cutting him off.

"No doubt we could argue about who is more deserving of blame all morning," he says, giving Ed a shy, knowing smile. "But! We have a busy day ahead of us. So why don't we pin the discussion for the time being, and call it even? Just this once."

“Alright,” Ed nods mechanically, cognizant of the shell shock still lingering in his own voice. “Even. Even Steven.”

Oswald reaches out and cautiously squeezes his shoulder.

“Good,” he says, letting out a relieved sigh, lips tilting up in a playful smile. “‘Even Steven,’ indeed.”

Ed has never been mimicked like that before, without so much as a hint of mocking disdain in the words. Instead, Oswald’s tone brims with warm fondness. 

No one, past or present, has ever seemed quite so taken with Ed’s eccentricities. No one but Oswald. 

  


“Excuse me,” Barbara says slowly, her eyes flashing dangerously, “you want me to do _what_?!”

The pair of them had burst into the Sirens’ Club mid-afternoon without so much as a word of warning, like it’s the old days, and they’re a couple of goons who’ve come to shake her down for the money she owes the big boss. 

Oswald leans against his intricately carved penguin’s head cane. The self-satisfied smirk on his face suggests he’s entirely in his element, the air of pompousness wafting off him like a thick cloud of smoke. Barbara knows he’s been using the brace as of late, so she can only assume the cane is for show. Some kind of status symbol, or possibly a means of inviting his enemies to underestimate him. 

She isn’t sure which it is. 

Ed looms a few paces from his side, just to the right of Oswald’s shoulder. He’s draped against the bar, looking so _deliberately_ bored, it makes Barbara's teeth grind. 

There’s an electric current in the air between the two of them, unspoken and palpable, like they’re tuned into the same radio frequency. She hasn’t seen much of them now that the first days of reunification have been underway, but she’d noticed it, cropping up in the months they had all spent planning their escape from this hell hole together. 

That steady rhythm of theirs had grown slowly, like a fungus. It’s there in their motions, their body language. Oswald moves left, Ed slinks right. Always perfectly in sync, anticipating each other’s moves before they even make them. As though they’re on the same page of a book no one else even has access to. 

The way the duo stands expectantly before her now reminds her eerily of the night she’d given birth to baby Barbara Lee. They’re a perfect photo double of the way they’d looked that night, gliding across the hospital floor shoulder-to-shoulder, threatening her for the sub part. A two-man unified front.

It’s unsettling. 

“I don’t want you to _do_ anything,” Oswald says, the trace of smugness lacing his words making Barbara’s blood curdle, “I’m just informing you of the inarguable facts. And the fact of the matter is...this club belongs to _me_.”

As though on cue, Ed lifts up the deed to the lounge and waves it with one hand, scarcely bothering to look up. The paper flaps through the air like a white flag of surrender. Except it’s hers, not his. 

Barbara’s had enough of the power play.

“What do you _want_ , Oswald?” she demands, baring her teeth.

“I _thought_ ,” Oswald starts, elongating the word as he cocks his head coyly, “perhaps we could cut a deal.”

“I’m _listening_ ,” Barbara all but hisses.

“Here’s my offer,” Oswald says, taking a step forward. “I will continue to let you patron my establishment. I will even allow you to take a negotiated cut of the earnings made. But this club is _mine_ , and, from here on out, all major decisions about how it is run will be made by _me_. _You_ will report to me accordingly.” 

“And if I refuse?” she asks, jutting out her chin. A challenge.

"You can take the deal," Oswald says, offering a shrug and a sickly sweet smile, "or I can have a legal team down to carve you out of this place in a day and a half. I’ll have every inch of you scrubbed from the premises until the name Barbara Kean will be nothing more than a shadow of long dead history.” 

In the background, Ed’s dimples flash, that smarmy little smile he always gets during Oswald’s tirades playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Enjoying having your position back as Pengy's lapdog?!" Barbara snaps just to be nasty. "Or does only that drooling mutt get to sit in daddy's lap?"

Oswald’s eye widens with alarm at the words. He jerks his head to look back at Ed, and she sees panicked fury grip his features.

She enjoys it, that moment of terror that lights up Oswald’s face as she plunges in the metaphorical knife and twists it. It’s there in his eyes as he anxiously monitors Ed. _Fear_. The kind of visceral dread that makes Oswald regard Ed like he’s a glittering green time bomb. Ready to go off any second. 

After all this time, she still knows exactly what buttons to press. Just play them against each other, and you’ll break up the band in no time. 

Except she doesn’t get the rise she’s expecting. Ed’s nostrils _do_ flare. Aside from that, though, his face is shockingly impassive, cold and collected as he straightens to his full height.

“You can drop the insinuations,” he says evenly, eyes dangerously black. “They’re tired, and, frankly? Cheap. Although I suppose _that’s_ hardly surprising.”

A flare of anger bursts in her chest, but she’s too stunned to retort in kind. As she glances over at Oswald, she’s not sure, in the moment, who’s more shocked—herself, or him. 

She recovers first, planting her hands on the bar with a furious smack. 

“You pompous, scrawny little bastard—!” 

“ _As_ Ed said,” Oswald interrupts, raising his voice to be heard over the barrage of insults spilling from her lips, “the nature of our—affairs is hardly the matter at hand. And it would serve us all well to... _lessen_ the mud slinging. We are going to be business partners, after all.”

“I haven’t agreed to anything,” Barbara growls. 

“We’ve shared similar arrangements before, Barbara. You know how lucrative it can be. What I’m offering you is more than generous. And,” Oswald adds in a low, conspiratorial voice, “it’s much easier to feed an infant baby with a steady income, I’d imagine.”

“You’d threaten a child, Ozzie? That’s low, even for you.”

“I would do no such thing!” he exclaims, having the gall to look affronted. 

“Hello, baby’s mother?” she gestures emphatically at herself. “Same difference!”

“I’m not looking to threaten a child,” he drawls, irritation radiating off him. “I was merely _pointing out_ the arrangement has potential benefits for the both of you.”

“Such as?” she asks, drumming her nails impatiently against the counter top. 

“Aside from maintaining your livelihood? You’d be under my jurisdiction, Barbara. That offers certain...protections.”

“Do I _seem_ like I need your protection?!” she demands, bristling at the implication.

“No, of course not,” Oswald concedes with a nod of his head, “but, now, with the little one—” 

The look she shoots him is pure ice. He carries on regardless, faltering only momentarily. 

“In a city like Gotham, the additional safeguard certainly couldn’t hurt, could it?” he asks, throwing up his hands to encompass the potential treachery of the city. “Be sensible, Barbara. I’m offering you a boon.”

Barbara says nothing, still glaring at him fiercely. Not wanting to waver, show her vulnerability.

“Ultimately, it _is_ your call,” he adds, inspecting his nails with an air of disinterest. “I'm sure Jim and Lee will be more than happy to pick up the slack if _you_ can't."

“Okay, but what _if_ ,” her voice raises several octaves on the word, going sing-song as she pulls out her gun from under the bar and levels it at Oswald’s head, “I just shoot you on the spot instead?”

Ed stiffens in the background, going statue still. The gaze he pins her under is stony, a look that could kill. 

But Oswald doesn’t so much as waver, entirely unruffled. He raises a mocking eyebrow.

“I think you’ll agree, that hardly seems a wise course of action, Barbara,” he says with a sardonic smile, “you of all people should know, as someone with first hand experience...I have quite the penchant for rising from the dead.” 

She lets out a childish huff, rolling her eyes as she lowers the gun. 

“Sadly, you’re not _wrong_. Besides,” she says, with a jerk of her thumb to Ed, “it’s not like I’d want to have to put up with _this one_ in the aftermath.”

It’s Oswald’s turn to roll his eyes.

“I hardly think my untimely demise would affect Ed _that_ badly,” he dismisses, “no doubt he’d handle the hopefully _unlikely_ event of my death with the same grace as he always has.” 

Barbara lets out an extremely indelicate snort.

“What, he’d start popping uppers again? Yeah, no thanks.”

Ed clenches his jaw so tightly, Barbara thinks she can hear it click. Oswald shoots him a sharp look, rattled in a way she’s so rarely seen him. 

"Whatever,” she waves a hand, over their melodramatics, “I'm not taking my chances with that one, he's a wild card. As a fellow loose cannon, I ought to know."

“So,” Oswald says, catching the subtext of her words, “you’re accepting my offer?”

“Not so fast,” Barbara says. “We still need to negotiate my percentage of the take.”

“Very well,” Oswald allows with a put-upon sigh, as though indulging an unruly child.

"50-50," Barbara says.

"90-10," Oswald shoots back with a smug simper.

"Get real, Ozzie. 40-60."

"80-20."

"35-65."

"70-30,” Oswald says, as though it pains him, “and I won't go lower than that, as it will put me barely ahead of you when it comes to profit."

"What the hell are you talking about?! Seventy percent puts you ' _barely_ ahead'?!"

"Ed and I will be splitting the remainder," he says with an off-hand gesture back and forth between them, as though it went without saying, "so, yes. Thirty-five percent each to your thirty."

Barbara gapes, turning her accusing stare on Ed. 

It’s a subtle thing, but she can see it in the way Ed’s lips part suddenly, those glassy too dark eyes turning to Oswald. She’s known him long enough to read his tells. 

He’s as flabbergasted as she is. 

Oswald barrels on without so much as an acknowledgement of the stunned silence that has settled over both of them.

“Do we have a deal?” he asks, extending his hand out for her to shake.

She curls her nose but grasps his hand firmly nonetheless.

“Bring the paperwork by tomorrow,” she says, turning away from him, a dismissal. 

"We'll be back with the contract, as well as blueprints for renovations,” Oswald says smoothly, “as the club will be returning to its previous name, The Iceberg Lounge, with the former decor restored."

Barbara opens her mouth to protest, but Oswald clucks his tongue, cutting her off.

"Don’t forget, I still hold the deed, as well as primary ownership, which means, _technically_ ," he wags an admonishing finger at her, "I'm your boss."

Barbara grits her teeth, using all her willpower to keep from screaming death threats at the top of her lungs.

With that, Oswald turns on his heel and struts towards the door with purpose, not offering her so much as a ‘goodbye’ in parting. Ed crosses the lounge floor at a leisurely stroll, falling into step at Oswald’s side. 

As they reach the door, he flashes a grin at her over his shoulder, showing too many teeth

"Bye, Barbara," Ed calls with a mock cheeriness irritating enough to rival her own. 

Then he has the gall to give her a coquettish little _wave_ as the pair of them waltz smugly out the door.

Once it shuts behind them, she hurls a martini glass against the floor, just for the satisfaction of the sound. 

The harsh crash of shattering glass isn't nearly as cathartic as she’d hoped it would be.

  


Ed drives carefully down Gotham's grimy, gray streets, headed west towards the river. Traffic is still scarce, even here in the hub of the city, despite the fact that reunification has been under way for nearly a week and a half now. 

Sure, there's glimmers of life's gradual return. A group of kids playing stickball in the empty left lane. Up on the crumbling brownstones, a grizzle-haired old woman, broom in one hand and pistol in the other, shooing what looks to be a member of the Mutants off her stoop. 

But it’s relatively quiet, for midtown at that time of day. A testament to the fact that rebuilding is a slow moving process. 

He knows, first hand, just how slow it can be.

Oswald’s staring out the window, watching the sidewalk pass by, surprisingly quiet given the rousing success of their meeting with Barbara. Ed opens his mouth to break the silence, but when he does, even he’s taken aback by what he says.

"You gave me half your share of the club," he blurts, before hurrying to add, "you didn't have to do that."

Oswald turns to regard him. Ed can feel more than see Oswald’s eye on his face, considering.

"Think nothing of it,” he dismisses after a beat, pale fingers briefly coming into Ed’s line of vision as he waves a hand. “We are partners, after all, are we not?" 

Ed nods, swallowing. It makes something inside his body spark, the casual, certain way Oswald says it. The power of the word itself. 

_Partners_.

He traces over it silently with his lips.

"Consider it recompense,” Oswald continues, “for your work on the sub. You were meant to receive half my bounty, but since that's gone now, this is the best I can do."

Ed twists his neck to look at him, just for an instant, giving him a quick smile. 

“You don’t have to do anything,” he assures, hoping Oswald hears the promise just below the surface of his words.

From the way Oswald’s head bobs, fast and unsteady as he nods, he thinks maybe he does. 

“Ed,” Oswald starts. The hesitancy in his voice raises Ed’s hackles immediately. “There was something Barbara said, when we were at the club. Something that’s been bothering me.”

“Oh?” Ed says, though it comes out as more of a strangled gulp than anything else. “And what was that?”

“She made that off-color remark. Pertaining to my death, and you taking speed? I thought maybe I misunderstood what she was trying to imply. Or, perhaps, she was just,” he pauses, as though considering his words carefully, “making more _unfounded_ accusations. As she had earlier. About...the two of us.” 

Ed can’t say for certain, but he thinks, in that moment, that his heart may have stopped beating. If only for a second.

He wonders, momentarily, if Oswald has chosen to ask in this particular moment because they’re in a moving vehicle, and he has no real means of escape. He could stop the car, sure, but Oswald would grab him before he could get away. Wiley bastard. 

Even so, he briefly considers just jumping out. There’s little to no traffic anyway, and he’s going relatively slowly. Hardly the most treacherous odds he’s ever faced. 

Instead, he opts for courage, just this once. Takes a deep breath and steels himself. 

“After I—” his voice breaks on the words, but he pushes forward, forcing himself to continue, “after I shot you, I started taking pills. To see you.”

“To see me?” Oswald demands, voice high and reedy with confusion. 

Ed reaches up and fidgets with his glasses. A nervous habit he’s never quite managed to kick.

“Not at first,” he explains. “At first, it was to keep going. I was...struggling. Not sleeping. I thought they would help me concentrate. But then,” he taps a finger against his head, “then the hallucinations started. Not all that surprising, given my history.”

Oswald’s silence is deafening, and Ed finds himself unexpectedly grateful they _are_ in the car, because he's driving and he _can't_ look at Oswald, not for more than brief, second-long snatches.

“I told myself that I only needed you while I searched for a new mentor. You were a means to an end. Temporary support, until I found someone new to teach me to stand on my own.” 

He bares his teeth, more grimace than grin. 

“That is, until I realized the truth.”

“Which was?” Oswald asks with breathless urgency. 

“That I just missed you, and I wasn’t quite ready to let you go.” 

Ed hears Oswald’s breath hitch, so soft he almost misses it.

“You see, you were right,” he says, his facsimile of a grin turning self-deprecating, “that day on the pier. You said that killing you would change me. And it did. It did change me.”

And there it hangs, suspended in the air, like a string knotted tautly between them. The reason behind Oswald’s conviction, his surety that his death would change Ed, ghosts over Ed’s lips. Still unspoken. 

_This will be the cold-blooded murder of someone you love_.

Out of his peripherals, Ed sees Oswald press his hand against his midriff, over the old scar they both know is hidden beneath his waist coat. Ed’s veins turn to ice at the sight of the gesture alone.

“Please,” Ed murmurs, wishing he could close his eyes as he bites down hard on his lip, “please say something.” 

“You shot me in the stomach,” is what Oswald offers.

Ed flinches involuntarily.

“I always thought there was something odd about that,” he continues thoughtfully.

There’s an evenness in his manner that seems ill fitting for the conversation at hand. He’s got his hands folded casually in his lap, his demeanor calm. As though they’re making small talk about how cloudy the weather always is in Gotham, instead of discussing his best friend revenge shooting him off the end of a dock.

“You would have bled out slowly and drowned,” Ed says with almost mechanical swiftness, calculated and precise, like the bullet sinking into Oswald’s gut that very day. 

He clamps down on the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste that telltale metallic tang and wishes, like he hasn’t in years, that he had managed to choke down that particular bit of word vomit before it expelled from his mouth.

“Still,” Oswald muses, unperturbed, “there are far more fatal places to shoot a person.” 

Ed shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

“Perhaps,” he concedes. 

He cocks his head, considering. The low afternoon light peeks between those perpetual Gotham clouds, glinting off his glasses momentarily. 

Oswald drums his fingers against his knee, and Ed could swear he hears him hum a few bars under his breath. An air of easygoing bravado that perhaps betrays his true nerves.

“I suppose,” Ed allows after a beat, “I was aware you had survived similarly dire circumstances in the past. It’s possible some part of my subconscious mind knew better than I did. We’re not always on the same page, I’m afraid.”

“I survived similarly dire circumstances,” Ed glances over just in time to catch Oswald’s indulgent smile, “because of you.” 

Silence lapses between them. Oswald’s small, gentle smile sears into the backs of Ed’s eyelids, burning into his retinas every time he blinks. The earnestness of it is too much to bear.

Ed takes a sudden right, turning abruptly down an out-of-the-way alley. He cuts the engine, turning off the car. 

Oswald swivels to look at him, confusion marring his face. Ed’s grip on the steering wheel is so tight, he knows his knuckles are white underneath the gloves. 

It’s been itching at him all day, the haunting images of his dream cropping up in the darkness every time he blinks his eyes. Hearing Oswald now, dismissing the pain _Ed_ had caused _him_ —the pain _they_ had caused _each other_ —as if it was nothing, just a blip on the radar, makes something inside him squirm uncomfortably. 

“I know I—” he starts, voice faltering in the middle. 

Beside him, Oswald has gone eerily quiet. No sound of clothing rustling against the leather of the seat. Not even so much as the quiet, rhythmic inhale, exhale of his breath. 

In the space where Ed’s voice has failed him, Oswald has fallen dead still, and dead silent. 

“I know I broke your heart,” Ed confesses, skating oh-so-dangerously towards the precipice. 

Because the thing is, they haven’t talked about it, Oswald's feelings for him. Past or present. Not since Ed came so close on the edge of the pier, weaponizing them in a feeble attempt to make Oswald stay.

There’s not so much as a whisper from Oswald’s side of the car. Ed can’t manage to look at him, but he can feel the tension radiating off him in waves. 

He squares his shoulders, soldiering on. 

"It broke my heart, too, you know."

"Yes, Ed,” Oswald says, so hollow, his voice is almost unrecognizable, “I know I broke your heart, taking Isabella from you."

Ed finally swivels his neck to look at him then. Oswald is hunched in on himself, arms still wrapped around his torso. He looks small, and tired, but when Ed catches his gaze, he finds a shocking lack of defensiveness or anger. 

"No, not—” 

Ed lets out a frustrated noise, dragging a hand across his face. 

“I mean, yes,” he says, dark and deep, emphasizing the severity of it, “that _did_ break my heart. But that's not what I meant.”

“It—it’s not?” Oswald asks shakily.

“No,” Ed says firmly. “I meant...losing you.” 

The off-guard, bewildered expression that takes over Oswald’s face makes him look painfully young, almost child-like in his utter befuddlement. 

“Oswald, you were the best friend I'd ever had,” Ed explains, trying hard to keep his voice from quaking. “The only _real_ friend I'd ever had. I trusted you, more than I had ever trusted _anyone_. And you betrayed that trust. _That_ broke my heart."

Oswald lets out a strangled noise, covering his face with his hands. 

“I’m so sorry, Ed,” he gasps from between the cage of his fingers, his breath coming out harsh and shallow, “I ruined everything.” 

The apology breaks over Ed like a tidal wave, the earnestness disarming him completely. He’d never have expected it. Had assumed Oswald’s loaded apology to Mr. Penn would be all he’d ever get from the man. Accepted it, in that moment. An inevitable part of Oswald, the type of man he is. 

...The type of men they both are. Never willing to admit to being at fault.

Oswald’s body tremors, and Ed reaches out automatically, massaging his sharp, bony shoulder through his suit jacket. 

“I would have done the same,” he confesses in a rush, relieved of all sense in his desperate haste to stop the inevitable onslaught of tears. 

Oswald drops his hands, gaping at him, eye wild and red-rimmed. 

"Wh-what?!"

“It’s exactly what I would have done,” Ed repeats deliberately, wading into the minefield, “in your position.”

The thing is, he _has_ done it. To Tom Doughtery. Jim Gordon.

...Butch. Mr. Penn.

“I think that’s why I hated you so much,” he says, lifting one shoulder in a shrug, his turn at too aloof. “Because I knew, deep down, if it had been me in your place? I would have done the same thing.”

Oswald lets out a wet, broken sound. It takes Ed a moment to realize he’s laughing. 

“We really are,” he chuckles, wiping at his face with the back of his hand, “a pair of completely irredeemable bastards, aren’t we?”

“That we are,” Ed says, an amused smile creeping onto his face, “that’s what makes us so perfect for each other.” 

Oswald freezes, and, a beat later, so does Ed, his words catching up with him. 

“That’s what you said, isn’t it?” Ed demands, too loud. “After I shot Mr. Penn?” 

“I believe I said,” Oswald corrects, carefully measured, “that maybe we were meant for each other, after all.” 

Ed stiffens, tapping his fingers reflexively against the steering wheel.

“But I suppose,” Oswald allows, a certain airiness in his voice, “the sentiment is much the same.”

Relief washes over Ed, grateful for the easy out.

"I am much more of a tyrant,” Oswald confides, “when you're not around." 

Ed snorts.

"Now _that_ I find difficult to believe."

Oswald swats at him, but there’s no real force behind it, his fingertips barely grazing Ed's jacket.

"Believe what you want," Oswald says, “but I was certainly at my best with you by my side.”

Warmth blooms in Ed’s chest.

As soon as the words leave his lips, Oswald’s face scrunches, harsh lines forming at the edges of his mouth.

“The reverse hardly seems to be the case,” he observes.

Ed catches his bottom lip trembling, right before he sucks it into his mouth. 

“Did you miss the part,” he says slowly, a sardonic undercurrent to his tone, “where I was such a mess after your death that I purposefully manufactured drug-induced hallucinations just to see you?”

Oswald blinks at him owlishly, clearly taken aback. 

“I don’t think that I can,” Ed admits.

“What’s that?”

“Leave you behind,” he says with a rueful smile. “It doesn’t work out so well for me.”

Oswald scoffs, nose crinkling.

“You most certainly can, and you have.”

At Ed’s curious look, he continues. 

“You became the Riddler in my absence. Helped bring the Narrows to heel. Fared just fine by yourself for months in No Man’s Land before we banded together. You can stand on your own, Ed,” Oswald assures him, “you’ve more than proven that.”

Ed recognizes it. Oswald’s praise, freely given. He didn’t even have to needle it out of him.

"Well, I suppose I _can_ ,” he agrees, “but I don't _want_ to."

His hand twitches, itching to take Oswald's. 

So...he does, squeezing it fondly, leather scuffing against leather as their palms press together. 

“I feel,” Ed grasps futilely in the dark, “...stable, when you’re around.”

But that isn’t exactly _right_. Ed is just as likely to swing from one mood to another, one persona to another, with very little notice. An array of ever changing hats. 

“That’s not exactly true,” he corrects, because it isn’t.

The difference was with Oswald, the steadiness he granted. Ed felt far more unified, in step with himself, when Oswald was around, even in his shifts from one identity to the next. 

It never seemed to matter he was unstable, not to Oswald. Oswald saw the whole of him, each disparate part. He accepted every seemingly ill-fitting piece as just another layer of Ed in sum total, slotting one after the other effortlessly into place.

“I feel…” 

Ed’s tongue dances against the roof of his mouth, struggling to get the words to come out. God, it’s nigh impossible for him to say these things out loud. 

“I can contain money, jewels, or gold. Those who have me, protection and security enfolds. What am I?”

The riddle rolls off his tongue with an ease few words ever can. He clamps down hard on Oswald’s hand, gripping his fingers tightly. 

“I feel safe with you, too, Ed,” Oswald says, and the ease of it takes Ed’s breath away, the simple understanding on Oswald’s face. 

Somehow, in the interim of their conversation, dusk has started to fall around them. A sliver of sun peaks out over the horizon, casting the alleyway in an orange glow. 

Oswald’s hair is backlit by the fading light, standing in ruffled peaks where he’s tugged at it, so tall and frayed it would look ridiculous on anyone else. Ed can only imagine he looks equally disheveled. 

He squeezes Oswald’s hand one last time, his heart tapping a staccato in his ribcage when Oswald squeezes back ever-so lightly. Then he lets go, grasping the gear shift once more. 

“Shall we go home?” Ed asks.

Ed doesn’t miss the pleased tilt to Oswald’s lips. His gentle nod is all the provocation Ed needs to put the car in reverse and back out of the alley, course correcting for the bridges once more. 

Back towards their home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one took some cajoling, so please let me know what you think if you get the chance! As always, any and all flailing, screeching, and general squee is cherished and appreciated. <3


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Real life genuinely kicked my ass in April, which meant a bit of a delayed update for this one. But it is finally here! Hope you enjoy. :)

Ed makes his way up the stairs, breakfast platter in hand. Two of fine China plates rest alongside the morning paper—revived at long last with reunification fully underway—and a lighter spread of pastries, berries, hard-boiled eggs, and Bloody Marys, the fruits of Olga’s early morning labor. Ed had taken it upon himself to throw a few tiger lilies into a vase with water and place it in one corner of the tray, ignoring the knowing look the move had earned him from Olga. 

"I still do not like you," she had told him in place of good morning as he shuffled past her, gathering the goods up in one hand.

The grin Ed had given her in return was sharp, bordering on manic. 

"The feeling is mutual!" he’d announced, painfully chipper as he gave his finger a little twirl to underscore the point. 

He had graciously chosen to ignore Olga’s harrumph in reply. 

As he’d turned to leave the kitchen, however, out of his peripherals, he could have sworn he caught a slight uptick to her usual grimace. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say she had looked almost...pleased. _Almost_.

Ed raps gently at Oswald’s door, pushing against the wooden surface with one shoulder as Oswald calls out for him to come in.

He steps into the room to find Oswald just sitting up in bed, looking bleary and rumpled in his gold patterned robe. His feathery hair is tousled, sleep still clinging to his eye as he blinks up at Ed. Not for the first time, Ed mentally curses that a gangland kingpin can look this ridiculously... _cute_. 

As he takes in the sight of him, he finds himself speculating whether or not his own scent lingers in the robe’s fabric, clinging there from the previous evening. He feels an odd jolt in his ribcage as he realizes that he hopes it has. 

“Ed?” Oswald squints up at him, befuddled in his drowsiness.

“Breakfast,” Ed says, hoisting up the tray by way of explanation, “courtesy of Olga.”

“Oh!” Oswald says, brightening. 

He shuffles to one side of the bed to make room, then reaches out gratefully for the platter.

As Ed passes him the tray, something settles, warm and steady in his chest. These early mornings spent together aren’t just the norm through necessity anymore, they’re steadily becoming comfortable. Settled. Routine. 

Oswald sees him now, day in and day out. In his pajamas at the breakfast table. Scratching over his notes late at night, the product rubbed out of his hair where he’s been tugging at it in thought. 

And Ed sees Oswald in turn, curled up in front of the fireplace in the evenings, a cigarette in one hand as he massages his leg with the other. His father’s robe pulled over his suit for comfort even when he’s too tired to have bothered changing out of his clothes for the day. 

Glimpses behind the armor, the veneer of the flashy Riddler and the fearsome Penguin long scrubbed away.

It’s familiar, an echo of days long past. As Mayor and Chief of Staff. Or of their time spent holed up in Ed’s apartment, Oswald recovering from the bullet wound that intertwined their paths forever. 

They’ve made a habit of it, cohabitation. Ed had thought nothing about it, those first two times around, having little basis for comparison. He’s realized, with hindsight, that such a propensity surpassed the limitations of what was considered a standard, friendly gesture. But, then again, the years and perspective have given Ed insight into how much their friendship pushed past the boundaries of “normal” platonic behavior. 

So it’s familiar, with that tingling sense of deja vu that haunts every step Ed takes down the manor’s echoing halls. But there’s something in it that feels...new. An intimacy they’ve never shared before, drawing them closer and closer, circling ever nearer to a new status quo.

Ed can practically feel the excitement pulse through his veins at the thought. 

As Oswald picks up a pastry and begins buttering it, Ed plucks the _Gazette_ off the tray, electing to stay standing for the moment.

"Not to spoil the mood," he says, suddenly somber as he flips over the paper against his chest, showing Oswald the headline, "but Sofia Falcone has come out of her coma."

Oswald sucks in a sharp, audible in-take of breath. His shoulders tense automatically, the butter knife slipping through his fingers to clatter against the fine China with a sharp, resounding clang. Ed grimaces in sympathy as Oswald closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose, as if a migraine is imminent. 

“When?” is all he manages after a long beat of silence.

“Yesterday afternoon,” Ed replies, brow furrowing as he studies the article intently.

He doesn’t bother to look up as he folds one leg underneath himself, perching on the edge of the bed. 

"She claims to have no recollection of the incident that led to her coma—or the last six months leading up to it—whatsoever."

Oswald lets out a disgusted huff.

"She's clever," he allows begrudgingly, "I'll grant her that."

“Mmm,” Ed hums in agreement, “but she thinks she’s smarter than she actually is. Speaking as someone with his own sizable hubristic streak, that arrogance will come back to bite her.”

He finally lowers the paper, taking up a pastry himself and biting into it.

“A hubris the two of us share,” Oswald observes with a wry sort of indulgence, “hopefully alongside a wealth of past experience we can draw upon to our advantage.”

Ed continues to nibble at his breakfast. He watches, hawk-eyed, as Oswald adjusts against the headboard, sitting up fully in bed with a sigh.

“We need allies,” Oswald points out, a weariness in his tone, “all we can get.”

Ed’s chin drops in a curt, affirmative nod.

"Agreed." 

Oswald’s sharp green eye clouds, pensive as he sinks his teeth into the skin of his lip. Ed reaches out instinctively, giving Oswald’s leg a reassuring squeeze through the blankets.

“Oswald,” Ed says firmly, “I’ve thrown in my lot with you because I still have faith no one can run the Gotham underworld like you can. That no one has a better chance of climbing his way back to the top than _you_ do.”

There’s an undercurrent, thrumming beneath his words, that he hopes Oswald can hear. A ghostly echo of conversations long past.

_I believe in you, Oswald. Even when you don’t believe in yourself_.

“Sofia Falcone doesn’t hold a candle.”

Oswald offers him a tremulous hint of a smile, cautiously laying his own hand over Ed’s where it still rests atop his leg.

“I hope you’re right, my friend.”

“Of course I am,” Ed says, cocky in his dismissal. “Besides, you have something you didn’t, the last time you fully squared off against her.”

“Oh?” Oswald asks, curious. “And what is that?”

“Me.” 

Ed smiles smugly as he taps one finger against his temple. 

The look Oswald gives him can only be described as one of fond exasperation.

“Forgive me if I’m mistaken,” he says, coy with false deference, “but weren’t we _just_ bemoaning your own hubristic streak?”

Ed rolls his eyes up toward the ceiling, feigning contemplation.

“Yes,” he concedes after a moment, “but is it really egotism when you actually are just _that_ clever?” 

The smile he gives Oswald is bright and knowing, the query posited in no small part just to ruffle Oswald’s feathers. 

“You really are _completely_ unbearable, Ed, I hope you know that.” 

Ed’s gaze deliberately drops to study Oswald’s mouth. His bottom lip quivers as the corner scrunches, making it clear Oswald is biting the inside of his cheek. Unmistakable tells that he's trying hard not to smile. 

Ed just barely resists the urge to reach out and poke his lips in victory.

“You might have mentioned it,” he says instead, “once or twice.”

“A thousand times fewer than you deserve, then,” Oswald quips, grin finally breaking over his face.

Ed’s nimble fingers find a fleshy bit of Oswald’s skin through the quilt, giving his thigh a gentle, teasing pinch in retaliation.

“Maybe so,” he says, smirking as Oswald squawks and bats his hand away.

“Can we please just eat breakfast now?” Oswald asks huffily, purposefully ignoring Ed’s antics as he gestures impatiently down to the tray still in his lap. 

Only a few pastries have been picked over, the meal forgotten in the heat of their conversation. 

“I suppose that _would_ be for the best,” Ed allows, canting his head to one side. “No doubt Olga will scalp us both if she catches me downstairs reheating everything.”

“No doubt,” Oswald agrees.

A moment passes, Oswald’s eyebrows creeping slowly towards his hairline as he stares at Ed expectantly. Ed feels a sudden wave of self-consciousness under the razor sharp focus of his gaze, resisting the urge to squirm at the realization that there’s some silent communication passing that he has failed to pick up on. Finally, Oswald releases his breath in an irritated puff.

“Well?” he asks, gesturing to the open space beside himself. “Are you planning to just sit there at the end of the bed all day, or what?”

The corner of Ed’s mouth lifts immediately at the response. The mattress bounces with his weight as he scrambles to Oswald’s side, hip checking Oswald a few times across the narrow space between them as he settles, getting comfortable

“No need to get testy,” he says loftily, lifting a plate from the platter. “All you had to do was ask.”

Rather than dignify the comment with a response, Oswald tuts in answer, rolling his eyes as he hands Ed a napkin. 

So they take their meal side-by-side in Oswald’s bed, all brushing elbows and bickering about passing the jam. 

  


Flashes of purple have started working their way into Edward’s wardrobe. Lilac ties, violet gloves, lavender pocket squares, amethyst cufflinks. Today, Ed’s clutching a familiar, deep plum tie in one hand, the garment pilfered from Oswald’s wardrobe during No Man’s Land and, as of yet, unreturned. Oswald has noticed the color creeping into the edges of Ed’s signature style, but refrains from commenting, afraid that pulling that particular thread will unspool something which has only just now been delicately stitched back together. 

Still, when he places the jade cufflinks in Ed’s palm, part of their renewed morning routine of Ed helping him dress, he feels a rush of warmth at Ed's absentminded smile as he attaches the little green jewels to Oswald's sleeve.

Oswald tries not to read too much into it all, desperate not to misinterpret the signals.

After all, this daily ritual is exactly the kind of thing Ed would have done for him back in the early days of their friendship. Had done, in fact. 

Looking back, he knows now those small, intimate moments had all just been gestures of Edward's gratitude, his steadfast friendship, and nothing more. No hidden meaning beneath the actions to be picked apart and deciphered, as Oswald had been wont to do in those days. 

To read into them now, after all this time, would be a grave mistake. It’s one Oswald isn’t particularly interested in making twice. 

Sure, there has been a more overtly _romantic_ tenor to some of Ed’s gestures in recent days. But Oswald has no doubt such moments can be chalked up as purely coincidental. Ed hasn’t always been the most skilled at reading social cues, after all, and he’s hardly been shy in the past about expressing his interest in potential paramours. If he felt that way, he would have said something, or provided some concrete gesture that couldn't be misinterpreted. Oswald can’t risk pinning his hopes on wistful fantasies, lest they get the better of him once more.

He just wishes his head could convince his lovesick heart that was the case.

Ed had retired briefly to his room to dress, but rejoined Oswald in his as they both pulled together those last few finishing touches of their ensembles for the day. Which means he’s sans jacket, still in his sock feet as he brushes smooth the line of Oswald’s own button-down over his shoulder, inspecting his attire with a careful, discerning eye. 

Given that it’s become a fairly regular sight, it shouldn’t affect Oswald overmuch. And yet, he finds himself growing a tad hot under the collar as he follows the cut of Ed’s suspenders up his lithe frame, trying not to visibly swallow as he tentatively reaches out and straightens the right brace, making sure it’s pulled taut against Ed’s chest. 

Ed doesn’t comment, doesn’t so much as waver as he strides over to inspect the ties Oswald has laid out across the top of his dresser. 

“Which do you think?” Oswald asks, adjusting his sleeve before gesturing to the selection.

“You know I’m always predisposed toward the purple,” Ed says, running his fingers almost reverently down the line of the silk indigo paisley with light accents Oswald had pulled from his closet.

Oswald refrains from quipping that he can see that as he eyes Ed’s own accessories, biting down hard on his tongue to choke the words before they roll off his lips. 

“But, in this instance,” he adds, brandishing a dark Windsor with pale green brocade Oswald had picked out specifically with Ed in mind, “I think it might be best to go with the green.”

He holds the tie up against Oswald’s chest, brow furrowing as he eyes it critically.

“Compliments your eye color nicely.”

“Well, in that case,” Oswald says, lips twitching into a smile as he gives Ed a jocular tap on the shoulder, “I’ll defer to your excellent opinion.”

The comment earns him a bemused but not displeased look from Ed, who immediately loops the tie around his own neck, starting the knot with a practiced ease.

Oswald recognizes they’re still operating under the somewhat false pretense of his injured eye, though he hardly feels compelled to point that out and run the risk of Ed withdrawing from their routine altogether. 

Still, he thinks it's at least somewhat transparent he's capable of at least _looping_ a tie, and yet, here Ed is, doing it for him as if it’s expected, just part and parcel for his place in their partnership. 

Oswald feels almost mesmerized by the sight of Ed working the fabric between his nimble fingers, Oswald’s pulse quickening just beneath the skin of his throat.

“It looks so dashing on you, perhaps you should wear it,” he muses, nodding to the rich green pattern, so complimentary with Ed’s customary look. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Ed says, tugging the tie over his head before dropping it around Oswald’s neck, tightening it against his Adam’s apple with those swift fingers. 

Oswald hopes desperately Ed can’t feel his heartbeat beneath the brush of his knuckles against Oswald’s skin.

“There you are,” Ed says with his own gentle pat against Oswald’s collarbone, stepping back for him to examine his visage in the mirror.

Oswald smooths down the silk of his tie, giving his reflection a quick glance over, satisfied as always with Ed’s excellent work. 

He makes his way briskly over to the vanity, propping his right foot on the stool in front of it and hiking up his pant leg smoothly. Ed comes up and dutifully grips his shoulder to steady him, as though Oswald hadn’t done this a thousand times on his own, before and after Ed. 

He’s sure, if questioned, Ed would have a remark about Oswald’s altered depth perception affecting his balance at the ready.

Oswald picks up one garter from the dresser and wraps it around his leg, fastening the ends together. He twists the strap until the buckle is settled at the back, clasps hanging on either side.

“I thought we might try north of Sprang today,” he notes, leaning down to clasp first one grip, then the other, “up near the Bowery. What do you think?”

Echoing silence is all that follows his statement. 

“Ed,” Oswald calls, brow furrowing in confusion, “are you listening?”

Oswald peers up at him curiously, Ed’s face giving him pause. 

He looks like a deer caught in the headlights, eyes wide and almost black in the bedroom light, an expression in them Oswald can’t name. 

He follows Ed’s eyeline, his heavy gaze settled at where the garter hugs Oswald’s skin tightly.

It’s a sight familiar enough to go unnoticed. But, as he looks at it now, Ed in mind, Oswald notes the unnatural shrukenness where the muscle has deteriorated with time, the visible scarring snaking up towards his knee just above the sock. 

He feels a wave of nausea hit low in his belly at the thought of Ed's eyes trained so intently on the knotted muscle and scar tissue. 

Ed's seen it countless times before, Oswald reminds himself. It should hardly perturb him now. 

And, furthermore, it isn't Edward Nygma's place to judge him for such ailments. Ed had measured him up and found him lacking years ago, for crimes far removed from any ugliness branded onto his body.

As he glances back up, Ed’s tongue darts out to wet his lips, but his gaze never wavers.

Oswald finds himself glaring against his better judgment, huffing slightly in irritation.

“I know it’s unsightly,” he observes sardonically, trying to keep his voice even so as not to betray the tumultuous swirl of emotions suddenly raging inside him, “but that’s no reason to _stare_.” 

This time, Ed really _does_ look doe-like, blinking at him uncomprehendingly.

"What?!" he asks, swallowing hard enough his Adam’s apple bobs, eyebrows drawn. 

Then, his expression clears, like clouds parting, as comprehension finally dawns. 

"No! No, I—that wasn’t—"

He sighs, shutting his eyes briefly, as though trying to compose himself.

Then, in lieu of any real explanation, he offers, “Would like my assistance with the other one?”

He points to Oswald’s left leg. 

_Ah_. So _that_ was it. Just more of Ed’s recent persistent obligation to help, however unnecessary, shining through. 

“...if you’d like,” Oswald replies tentatively. 

Ed picks the other garter up off the vanity, then kneels in front of Oswald in one fluid motion.

Oswald inches up the leg of his trousers, trying not to shiver when the back of Ed’s hand brushes against his bare skin. He could swear he feels a slight tremble in Ed’s fingers as he reaches forward and wraps the strap around Oswald’s calf. 

Oswald’s eye drifts down to study the top of Ed’s head. Bowed slightly forward, it’s the perfect vantage for him to consider the way Ed has sculpted his hair with a careful hand, slicked into place and ever so slightly tousled with pomade.

Heat creeps up Oswald’s neck, skin flushing as his mind conjures up images of _other_ scenarios that might put Ed in this same position, on his knees at Oswald's feet.

“The Bowery?” Ed asks as he firmly fastens the garter clasps into place, the cogs in his head clearly turning once more, sharp as ever now that he’s back online. “That’s near Freeze and Firefly’s respective territories, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Oswald concedes, inclining his head. “I felt it might be...prudent. In terms of allies, they’ll either be the most amenable to the proposition...or the _least_.”

Ed straightens Oswald’s pant leg over his ankle before standing, brushing imaginary lint from his knees.

“Seems a sound deduction to me,” he says, holding Oswald’s jacket open for him to slide into.

“I’m so glad it meets with your approval,” Oswald simpers, no real hint of malice as he tugs his lapels into place.

“That it does,” Ed replies, offering him a wide, teasing smile as he shrugs into his own violently green suit coat. 

“By all means, then,” Oswald gestures to the door, “lead the way.”

And he doesn’t even hesitate when Ed offers him his arm.

  


"Well, that went well," Ed observes sardonically, stomping out the toe of his boot before using his gloved hand to pinch out the singular flame licking a tuft of Oswald's hair.

"Good luck on your own, you overgrown glowworm!" Oswald spews into the distance, hopping up and down on the last word for emphasis, his rage fiery enough to match Bridgit’s flamethrower. 

It’s astounding, how that fierce anger seems to animate every cell in his body until he’s practically vibrating with it, as though he’s lit up from the inside.

Ed smirks fondly down at him, feigning a cough so he can hide his grin behind a closed fist.

"Morons," Oswald mutters darkly, paying Ed little mind as he dusts the ash from his shoulders.

"Where to next?" Ed asks, dropping his hand.

He frowns when he notices Oswald staring into the distance, the whites of his eye visible where it has suddenly widened.

"From the looks of it," he says, nodding to where Victor Fries is marching toward them from one end of the street, and then glancing back at Bridgit stalking up the other, "anywhere but here."

Ed follows Oswald’s line of vision, his hands latching onto Oswald’s shoulders as soon as he catches sight of the pair. Then he’s steering Oswald forward, ever careful of his leg as he pushes Oswald into a nearby shop.

A chime tingles overhead as they stumble into the entryway. Oswald braces his hand against the nearest surface, attempting to get his bearings as he takes in the premises. 

Shining glass cases cover every nook and cranny of the room. The woman at the counter in the back watches them, glasses perched on the end of her nose, iron threaded through her hair where it’s pulled back into a severe bun. 

Oswald’s eye catches the iridescent shimmer before he clearly comprehends what he’s seeing. Glittering jewels, gold, and silver proudly on display inside every box. 

They’re in a jewelry shop, he realizes with a start. He can’t account for the sudden anxious lurch in his stomach at the revelation. 

As he takes it all in, for one heart-panging instant, the antique brocades and sparkling gems remind him of his mother. Of her one small oak chest full to the brim, a mix of tarnished pieces from the old country and too bright costume jewelry. She would shimmer in the low light of their one-bedroom apartment, always ready to put on a show. 

As a boy, Oswald had thought she was the most beautiful woman in the world, in her fake gems and single tattered boa. He had wanted to be just like her. 

As a man, he’d wanted to _give_ her the world. Found himself stealing pieces to replace her fake trinkets. And then, once he’d come under Fish Mooney’s employee and could afford the extravagance, buying a few outright, an attempt to bedeck her in the manner he felt befitted her. 

Only a few things. A set of pearl earrings. A dark garnet ring. Never enough. She was long gone before he’d really come up in the world, become a man who could give his loved ones anything he wanted. 

Beside him, Ed removes his hat, breaking Oswald out of his sudden wave of nostalgia. From his peripheral, Oswald can see Ed press the bowler against his chest, reaching up to smooth a stray hair back into place. 

Then he slides his hand down from its resting place in the crook of Oswald's elbow to take his hand, tangling their fingers together as he strides further into the shop. 

Ed leans against the counter once they reach it, not letting go of Oswald’s hand as he gives the store clerk his most charming, boyish smile. Rousing up that wide-eyed wholesomeness he’d had back in his days at the GCPD, entirely unbefitting of the four-figure suit he’s currently sporting. There’s an almost old-world sensibility to that eager air he had cultivated for so long in his youth, in part so effectively disarming because some vestige of it is entirely genuine.

He is distressingly good at wielding it when he wants to be.

“We were just admiring your selection,” he informs the clerk without missing a beat. Then, time seems to slow to a crawl, moving around Oswald with the viscousness of molasses as Ed adds, “Wedding ring shopping.”

He gestures needlessly between himself and Oswald.

"My fiancé and I."

Oswald's fingers clamp down hard on his at the words, breath seizing in his chest. It's taking everything in him not to turn and gape at Ed, at the casualness with which he’d said it. _My fiancé and I_.

Ed’s gaze drops to the display beneath his elbow, seemingly heedless of Oswald’s internal spiral as he eyes the selection critically. 

He finally seems to settle on an antique ring with a frankly _enormous_ purple sapphire at the center. Tapping the glass with one finger, he turns to Oswald, drawing his attention.

"What do you think, dear?" he asks expectantly.

Oswald’s mouth gapes open at the query, no sound coming out.

Ed’s brow furrows in obvious concern at his failure to respond, brown eyes warm as he gives his hand a gentle, almost encouraging squeeze. 

“Oswald?”

When Oswald’s voice finally returns to him, he finds himself sputtering in reply.

"I—well, yes, it’s very lovely,” he allows, dipping his head cordially to the ring in question. “Certainly my style."

A megawatt grin lights up Ed's face, showing off his pearly white teeth.

"Yes, I thought so as well!" he exclaims gleefully, clutching Oswald’s still captured hand against his chest as though suddenly overcome with emotion.

Oswald tries not to startle as he catches the woman behind the counter staring, her stony eyes peering curiously at him through her spectacles.

He gives her what he hopes is an unassuming smile, rustling up the long unused muscle memory of playing at meek and mild, a strategy he’d utilized often in his youth when it behooved him.

“Aren’t you Oswald Cobblepot?” she asks, leaning forward to gesture with her glasses, one perfectly plucked eyebrow raised.

Oswald thinks to lie, but sees little point in it. His reputation precedes him amongst most Gothamites, and he hardly has a face for blending in with the crowd now that he’s become as infamous as he has. He’ll just have to hope his notoriety will dissuade her from doing anything too rash. 

“Why, yes,” Oswald answers, clearing his throat in an attempt to keep the spike of agitation out of his voice, “yes, I am.”

The reaction his answer garners is hardly the one he expected. 

“I voted for you,” she hums, contemplative, tapping the temple of her glasses against the clear surface of the case. “You were a good mayor. The best we’ve had in recent memory.”

“Wasn’t he just?” Ed asks, far too low and sultry, eyes glittering with such open affection and admiration Oswald feels his face go hot.

“Thank you for your support,” Oswald says, drumming up his faux-humble politician's smile even as it feels forced around the corners.

He can still feel Ed's steady gaze on the side of his face, unabashedly smitten. He swears internally at the fluttering the attention causes in his chest, persistent even as his inner monologue chants again and again that it isn't real.

The jeweller glances up at Ed pointedly.

“And weren’t you his chief of staff?”

Ed startles, taken aback.

“Well...yes. I was.”

She glances back down at the crossword spread out before her, not a dismissal, but a clear sign of ease. 

“Well, good for you,” she comments, offhand. “It’s nice to see someone in this town get a happy ending. For once.”

Oswald and Ed share a look at the remark, Oswald relieved to find Ed looking just as perplexed as he feels.

“Ma’am…” Oswald starts uncertainly, anxious to push his luck but too curious not to bowl forward regardless, “you _do_ realize who we are?”

“You’re the Riddler and the Penguin,” she says without looking up, “everyone in Gotham knows that.”

Oswald can see Ed preening at the remark out of the corner of his eye. He pointedly ignores him.

“And that...doesn’t unnerve you at all?”

She looks up at him, her steely, piercing eyes almost as gray as her hair.

“And why should it?” she asks with an unconcerned shrug of her shoulders. “I’ve lived in Gotham for nearly 60 years now. If gangsters scared me, I would have moved a long time ago.”

Although it hardly seems possible, Ed’s grin glows even brighter at the words, contemplating the woman with what can only be characterized as an expression of pure delight. Although he doesn’t mirror his expression, Oswald shares the sentiment. The woman before him cultivates a kind of unflappable resolve that strikes him as uncannily reminiscent of the late Fish Mooney and, accordingly, drums up a swirling kind of nostalgic respect in his ribcage.

It is, of course, at that moment that Victor Fries bursts through the door.

The clerk gives them a decidedly unimpressed look, her lips quirking in silent inquiry.

"Jealous ex," Ed says, far too unruffled as he waves dismissively in Victor’s direction, and Oswald has absolutely no idea what it is he’s getting out of fabricating this elaborate drama around them.

"Yours or his?" she asks.

"Assuredly his, I'm afraid," Ed answers with a put upon sigh, as though he regularly finds himself fending off Oswald's competing suitors with a stick.

Oswald shoots him a withering look, but Ed ignores it, seeming blissfully unaware.

Even without glancing back, Oswald can hear the sound of frozen glass shattering behind them. Only in Gotham, he thinks, would he find himself making fabricated small talk while clearly minutes away from being frozen to death.

At the sound, the hard bitten jeweler lays a shotgun on the counter, and Oswald realizes why she hadn’t been all that nervous from the start. Ed’s eyes glimmer in delight as she gives them a shrug.

“We were hit three times in as many months a couple of years back. Everybody’s packing. It pays to be prepared.”

"There are times I really do love this city," Ed gushes, gripping Oswald’s arm with excitement as he echoes Oswald’s earlier thoughts in a decidedly more upbeat manner. 

Oswald wishes he could share in his jubilation, but he finds all enthusiasm has abandoned him at the heavy fall of Victor’s footsteps on their heels and the all-too-familiar sound of his freeze gun gearing up. 

“Um, Ed?” he says, an edge of hysterical impatience coloring his voices as he gestures emphatically behind them, Victor undoubtedly looming ever closer.

"You should go," the clerk says, leveling the barrel into the shop. 

The words finally kick Ed into high gear, and he wraps his arm roughly around Oswald’s as they barrel towards the backroom storage.

A shot rings out in the shop just as Ed tugs Oswald through the back alley exit.

They sprint several blocks, Bridgit’s taunts and the sizzling sound of her torch blower dogging their every step. Oswald has no doubt Victor isn’t far behind.

As they turn a corner, disappearing from Bridgit’s line of vision for just an instance, Ed shoves Oswald forcibly down the nearest darkened alley.

Oswald’s back hits the wall with a gentle thud, and he finds himself pinned against the brick-and-mortar by Ed’s body, caged in between those long arms. Having Ed’s face so suddenly close, his dark eyes large and luminous behind his glasses, makes Oswald’s breath catch in his throat.

"Edward, what th—?" Oswald starts to snarl, on the defensive.

He all but goes cross-eyed as Ed cuts him off, pressing one gloved finger against his lips.

"Shh," Ed shushes softly, eyes darting back down to the alley’s entrance, checking for their assailants.

Against all his natural instincts, Oswald does as Ed instructs and falls silent. 

Minutes tick by, the only noise in the alley the sound of their breathing. They’re pressed so tightly together the tip of Oswald’s nose brushes against Ed’s collarbone, Ed’s body solid and warm against his own. Ed’s breath is hot where it tickles his cheek, and Oswald feels lightheaded, the fresh, clean scent of Ed heady and thick all around him, seawater with a hint of mint. With Ed so close, he has to grit his teeth against the onslaught of adrenaline suddenly pumping through his body, willing his excitement not to rush decidedly _below_ the belt. 

Something brushes against Oswald’s hairline. Then, he hears Ed inhale deeply, the sudden shift in his breathing giving him away.

“Did you just _smell_ me?” Oswald hisses incredulously.

“Are you wearing _my_ cologne?” Ed demands near simultaneously. 

Oswald’s ears burn, his whole body flushing even harder than he already _had_ been at the accusation.

The thing is, the allegation isn’t strictly speaking _unfounded_. Oswald had found himself in the hall bathroom that morning for a final onceover, just before they’d left for the day. And he _had_ spotted Ed’s cologne on the counter and sprayed some out of curiosity—and more than a slight compulsion to just...breathe in the scent uninterrupted. As it hung suspended in the air all around him, Oswald unconsciously dabbed just a drop behind his ear, compelled to make the aroma linger.

Rather than admit to something so utterly mortifying, Oswald does the only thing he can do. He draws himself up to his full height, jutting out his chin defiantly, ready to meet Ed’s any inquiry with vehement denial.

He recognizes his mistake the moment he’s made it. As he jerks up his face, his nose brushes against Ed’s skin, and he sees Ed’s eyes widen at the sensation. Ed’s chest contracts as their breaths hitch near simultaneously, their mouths drawing dangerously close together—

A clatter sounds at the far end of the alley, and Ed jerks his neck to get a better look. Oswald’s whole body slumps as soon as Ed is turned away, no longer pinned under his molten gaze. 

The moment broken, his heartbeat pounds in his neck, and he isn’t sure if he feels more compelled to scream or sigh in relief. He should be grateful, he supposes. The distraction has just saved him from doing something _incredibly_ stupid, like leaning up and crushing his lips against Edward Nygma’s infuriatingly smug mouth.

"Alright,” Ed says, looking irritatingly unfazed, as though nothing had even happened, “I think the coast is clear."

He takes a step back, and Oswald wipes his hand roughly down his own torso, attempting to neaten the rumpled fabric of his shirt.

As they move to make their way out of the alley, a crackling sound bursts into the air.

Oswald screws his eye shut, his jaw clenching. Dread settles in his bones, the knowledge that he has no choice but to look behind him seeping over him like a bucket of icy cold water.

"Guess again!" Bridgit roars gleefully at his back.

Just as he swivels to face her, he hears a heavy footfall and a faint, tinkling sound, like shattered glass hitting concrete.

“You have _got_ to be kidding me!” he groans, meeting Ed’s disbelieving stare. 

He turns just in time to see Victor stepping out of the shadows and into the mouth of the alley.

“You know what?” Oswald says, throwing up his hands, officially at the end of his rope. “That settles it.” 

Ed gives him a quizzical look. 

“Sometimes the only option," he answers, flashing Ed a sharp grin as he yanks the pistol out of his jacket, "is to fight fire with firearms.”

Ed follows his lead without hesitation, pulling his own gun from his waistband and taking aim at Victor. The weapon wobbles almost imperceptibly, a slight tremor in his hand. 

Oswald steps in between them, gently steering Ed behind him.

"You take Bridgit," he instructs, pointing his gun at Victor's chest. "I've got Victor."

He catches Ed’s eye, sees him give a quick nod of understanding. 

Then he pivots to face Victor fully. Ed’s frame slots against his, a steady weight at his back. 

"You'd like a double display," Victor calls, voice completely flat, "how sweet."

“We’re ready when you are!” Oswald taunts, offering a sickly sweet smile as he gives his gun a demonstrative wave. 

He waits until he sees that telling flash of blue. 

"Now!" Oswald shouts, and he and Ed drop simultaneously.

This time, he’s the one who drags Ed into the nearest back entrance, his lanky partner doubled over in order to duck the combination of ice meeting flames. 

By the time they’ve run far enough to justify stopping to catch their breath, they’re both panting heavily. 

Ed bends over, bracing his hands on his knees as Oswald leans heavily on the wall beside him. 

“Clever of you,” he says, shooting Oswald a grin, “reeling them into a standoff that way.”

Exhilaration pumps through Oswald’s veins at the praise. There’s a sense of deep satisfaction that pools in his belly, the kind that only comes from averting a deadly situation on sheer wits alone. Having Ed at his side just makes it all the sweeter. 

He gives Ed a shrug, cultivating an air of manufactured humility. 

“It has been known to happen, on occasion.” 

“I do have one concern,” Ed adds, holding up a finger, never willing to let Oswald have a moment of total contentment pass without at least _one_ objection. “What guarantee do we have that they won’t just come after us again?”

“Not to worry,” Oswald says, “knowing the two of them—and, lest they forget, I _do_ —they’ll be bickering about who has first claim to kill us for _hours_.”

Ed lets out a light cackle at the proclamation. 

“We’ll be long gone by the time the dust settles,” Oswald adds. “Anything after that is...a problem for another day.”

At that, he rolls off the block wall and begins walking, Ed falling easily into step beside him.

“You know,” Ed begins when they’ve gone a few paces, sounding _entirely_ too casual, “if you _wanted_ to borrow my cologne, you could have just asked.” 

His grin blooms into a full-on smirk.

“I would have happily lent it to you.”

“So you _did_ smell me?” Oswald accuses, jabbing a finger in his direction.

“So you _are_ wearing my cologne?” Ed parrots, mimicking the cadence of Oswald’s voice exactly and looking entirely too pleased. 

Oswald lets out an undignified squawk at the allegation, and then elects not to dignify the question with a proper response, more than happy, for once, to concede the draw. 

“There is something that’s bothering me,” Ed adds after a beat.

“When isn’t there?” Oswald asks wryly, still a tad ruffled from the interrogation.

“You stepped in front of me.”

“What?” Oswald says flatly, failing to keep pace with the erratic line of Ed’s thoughts.

“Back there, with Fries,” Ed clarifies, gesturing over his shoulder, “you stepped in front of me.”

“Oh. Well, yes,” Oswald concedes with a nod, “I suppose I did.”

"You didn't think I could handle it," Ed observes.

Oswald tenses, his body instinctively gearing up for a fight. But Ed sounds more curious than accusatory, and Oswald supposes that's _something_.

He lets out a sigh.

"I suspected you might prefer _not_ to face down a potential repeat performance with the man who froze you in a block of ice for months on end,” Oswald counters. “Call it a hunch.” 

“He froze you too,” Ed argues.

“Yes,” Oswald allows, “but it was only for a few hours, and it hardly had the same effect, now, did it?”

He sees Ed shudder slightly at the words, the memory of his icy prison and the months after spent incapacitated no doubt washing over him. 

“Still,” Ed says, voice too breezy, “it was... _thoughtful_ of you. Even if it was ultimately unnecessary.”

Oswald really wishes he wouldn’t sound quite so surprised.

“Yes, well,” Oswald replies, airy in turn, “just as long as you don’t let it get around. I do have a reputation to maintain, after all.”

Ed offers him a soft, private smile, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Your secret’s safe with me.”

“All-in-all, I had hoped for better results,” Oswald admits, eager to change the subject as he rubs wearily at his eye. “A less than stellar outing on the ally front, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t call it an _all-out_ failure,” Ed says, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

Oswald shoots him a puzzled look. 

Then, Ed’s producing a blueprint with a flourish—from where, even Oswald isn’t sure.

“I stole the schematic for Fries's next project from his workshop,” he gloats, waving it about as he shoots Oswald that too wide Cheshire grin.

"Ed," Oswald exclaims, eye shining, "you are _brilliant_!"

"I know," he says, canting his lips, cocky.

But the pleased flush on his cheeks betrays him.

  


A few days later, Oswald wakes to find the ring sitting on his bedside table, purple sapphire glittering in the low morning light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somewhat lighter, sillier shenanigans for our boys during this complicated period for all of us in real life. And a shoutout to a couple of Nygmobblepot discord peeps! Chierei, for planting the seed of Ed thirsting over Oswald’s garter socks as unknowing retaliation for his strip tease (which, of course, my dumbass made angsty with bonus oblivious Oswald, as per usual) and Yanderebeats, who wanted to see an incorporation of the infamous “Did you just smell me?” line from Hannibal. <3 <3 <3
> 
> As always, all comments, keyboard smashes, and kudos are welcomed and greatly appreciated! I always look forward to getting to hear y’all’s thoughts. <3


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